Nightingale's Song
by Bre'Lakor
Summary: "Love is a foolish emotion, it only means you need a shorter knife." A pity he didn't heed those words when he first heard them - it did not become a thief to get tangled up in feelings. Story based around the events of the Thieves Guild in Skyrim from when Gallus is still alive to the present in game, major focus on Brynjolf, some slight changes to canon!
1. A City of Thieves

Hey there! This is just something I've been pondering for a while since replaying Skyrim. It's based off the thieves guild story line with a particular focus on Brynjolf & Gallus, I intend for it to cover the past when Gallus was still alive, to the present storyline that takes place in the events of Skyrim. There is an OC in this, in case you are adverse to such things and there will be some deviations from canon (but I intend to work with the canon as much as possible, just with slight changes - the same outcome for everything is still the same)

Basically, it's a story about Brynjolf's life from when he's first joined the thieves guild to the Mercer/Karliah/Nocturnal mess (and maybe a little bit after that too)

The plot will be quite slow at first in order to establish what happened before Gallus died, however it will start to pick up after that!

Thanks for taking the time to read it!

* * *

**Nightingale's Song**

**Part One**

**Chapter One**

**A City of Thieves**

It was a thieves world. Or, it was in Riften at least. The entire city was in the pocket of the Thieves Guild – nothing went on there without them knowing, and every guard was bribed or threatened into complacency. The merchants all paid protection money and if anyone tried to work against them, they found themselves in jail pretty quickly.

It was a good place to be a thief. Here, Brynjolf could walk the streets without being cautious – and some other thieves even didn't mind if it were public knowledge they were a thief. In Riften, being a thief was merely a career choice, not a heinous crime. And it made seducing young maidens quite a bit easier, they all seemed to have this notion that being a thief made one seem dark and mysterious, or romantic, or something along those lines.

Brynjolf didn't really care as long as it helped him into their beds.

This particular morning he was walking down the streets with an arrogance in his step to join his fellow guild members. His path took him through the market, where he saw a foreign merchant selling a yellow fleshy looking fruit. It was imported from Hammerfell according to the merchant – apparently very delicious.

Skyrim, as a rule of thumb, did not have the best of climates, and the food was none too different. The frost killed most plants during the winter apart from the hardiest and natives species, like apples and berries. In the colder months, very little grew in terms of food, and most people survived off preserved vegetables or fruits from the warmer months, tubers, or cured meats. In certain parts of Skryim, a particular traditional method of burying orca meat in the sand with salt for the better part of a year, then digging it up and eating it in winter, was quite popular. Brynjolf had never acquired the taste for it.

Still, Riften was more temperate than the more northen areas of Skyrim. The summers were warm(ish) and during it the sun seemed to believe it had a personal mission to shine for the entire day at times, only to completely bugger off in winter when the snow came – as if to say, _I did my part and gave you four months of constant sunlight, so figure it out for yourselves in winter. _

But either way, Brynjolf was used to it. It was all he'd ever known.

The merchant selling the fruit was distracted with a costumer, so he casually snatched a piece of fruit as he passed the stall. Nobody brought him up on it because it was Riften, though some people probably noticed. He took a bite out of the yellow fruit as he walked to the graveyard. It was quite sweet and juicy, he had to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand after a few chews. He'd finished it by the time he'd entered the secret entrance to the thieves guild, and chucked the core in a pile of trash in the corner. Somebody would get rid of it later, hopefully not him.

He was probably one of the youngest people in the guild, but he'd been there for a long enough time that people treated him like family. He was only a teenager when he wound up joining, so even if he was an adult now, some people still treated him like the little baby brother – he hated it.

Gallus, their somewhat eccentric but friendly guild master was standing near his desk, speaking to Karliah, a dark elf of a similar age to Gallus. They were both probably ten years older than Brynjolf, maybe a little less. It was common knowledge in the guild that Gallus and Karliah where a 'thing', though it was considered a bit odd. Most thieves didn't take their relationships beyond a casual screw.

Regardless, Brynjolf hadn't really intended on joining them, until Gallus beckoned. So he obliged and wondered over.

"Excellent," Gallus started warmly. Karliah gave him a polite nod. "We were just speaking of you."

Brynjolf cocked an eyebrow. "Good things, I hope."

A chuckle left Gallus' lips but he didn't specifically reply to his statement. "An opportunity has presented itself to rid Pontus Felskog of a valuable falmer artifact he has recently acquired."

Of course it was about falmer. It was always about falmer with Gallus. Well, perhaps not always, but it sometimes felt as if he were always going on about some scholarly thing or another. Sometimes Brynjolf wondered why he'd even become a thief in the first place.

"He's holding a gala at his estate in Windhelm," Karliah continued. Pontus Felskog was a nord of some wealth and standing, remarkable for being enthusiastic about multiculturalism in Skyrim, and considered to be a quite annoying man who talked too much and too fast by many people. But however annoying or well meaning Pontus was, he was also incredibly fond of his numerous artifacts and possessions and employed a small army of personal guards to watch them, so they had realised earlier that breaking into his estate was not really feasible.

"I want you to go," Gallus said. "I would myself, but Karliah and I have... prior commitments."

The two of them often left for periods of time together. Nobody really knew what they did, most people thought it was something to do with them being a couple, but Brynjolf wasn't so sure. He didn't really worry himself with what they did though. Still, he was a little bit flattered Gallus would choose him in his place. Gallus wouldn't ask just anybody to recover this particular artifact, it would be somebody he trusted not to take it for themselves – it was worth more to him personally than just some expensive item to be pawned off. But Brynjolf had always been close to Gallus so it probably wasn't that surprising.

"You can attend the gala and take it right under his nose," Karliah continued. "But-"

"We're sending someone with you," Gallus finished for her.

Brynjolf narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"His gala is about celebrating multiculturalism in Skyrim," Karliah started. "You're a nord so you're not exactly an immigrant or part of a minority group, you'll need a better disguise to get in without looking out of place."

He nodded slowly, but allowed Gallus to continue with their plan. "Pontus would be especially thrilled if you went with someone as a couple, but it won't help much to take anybody else in the guild as your partner, a nord and another nord, or even an imperial isn't so uncommon."

"I hope you have a plan other than kidnapping somebody off the street," Brynjolf offered. Gallus chuckled brightly in the way that he did.

"No, that won't be necessary. In fact," he smiled, "we're thinking we can kill two birds with one stone. Mercer seems to think he's found a potential recruit." Brynjolf could see exactly where this was going, though he didn't mind that much. "She's a wood elf, you can take her along and see how she performs."

"A wood elf?" Brynjolf frowned. He wasn't sure he could convincingly pull that off, elves in general weren't so popular in Skyrim (in fact amongst some groups of nords they were very unpopular, and wood elves were considered only marginally better than the high elves.) "Do you think anybody will believe that? Most bosmer won't even leave Valenwood willingly let alone mate outside their race, and some nord men are more likely to stick an axe in an elf than court them."

"Unless they have a fetish," Karliah muttered a little bitterly.

Brynjolf gave her a somewhat horrified look. So help him, he'd pretend to be a couple with some woman to get this artifact, but he wouldn't pretend to be some screwed up nord who got their kicks out of screwing tiny little bosmer women who he'd hurt more than pleasure.

"Which is precisely the reason why this is going to work so well!" Gallus was possibly enjoying this too much. "Pontus is an arrogant creature, he won't be able to resist boasting about the wood elf and nord couple he invited to his party."

Brynjolf wasn't sure what expression seemed appropriate for his emotions at the moment or the situation. Eventually, he just murmured, "this is ridiculous," to himself and went along with it.

o0o

The wood elf that Mercer had found (Mercer was the second in charge behind Gallus in the Thieves Guild) was to be inspected and interviewed before they committed to the plan. They decided to have it take place in one of the rooms above the Bee and Barb, the local tavern (the owners were well and truly paid off to keep quiet.) Brynjolf accompanied Gallus the next morning when it was scheduled. They entered the room together and took a seat each at the same end of a small table. A bosmer woman sat on the opposite end.

She was quite tiny, probably even by elven standards, though all bosmer were slight and short so that didn't mean much. Brynjolf would probably tower over her if they stood side by side. She wore a plain but fine set of leather armour and there were some scars on her features. Her fingers, in particular, had hard callouses on the tips and looked weathered, as if she used them everyday in manual labour. He guessed she was probably an archer, though it wasn't a particularly grand deduction because she _was_ an elf and had a bow on her back, the callouses just confirmed it.

"Hello," Gallus started. "My name is Gallus," he gestured to Brynjolf, "and this is Brynjolf. Mercer tells me you're quite talented."

"I imagine I wouldn't be hear if he didn't," she replied. It was not arrogant or cold, just simple, neutral and matter-of-fact.

"Quite true!" Gallus became serious then. "Now, we have business to discuss."

She did not reply, but held their gaze steadily. She had black eyes. They were a bit unnerving.

"You're going to accompany Brynjolf to Windhelm, were you will steal an artifact of particular value to me. If he thinks you're good enough, you'll be invited to join our guild on your return. If not, he'll probably just leave without you."

Brynjolf studied her reaction carefully. She was not reacting the way most people did. Her features were careful but calculating without being malicious. Usually they had two kinds of recruits, people who were so nervous they almost vomited, or people who were so arrogant it made Brynjolf want to punch them. She wasn't really either.

"Okay," was her reply, then she paused in thought. "And what if I, say, revealed you to the guard?"

Gallus smiled, though this time it wasn't so much friendly but a warning. "Then we contact the Dark Brotherhood, savvy?"


	2. Lucille

Just gonna mention that I gonna play a bit more on the fact that nords _really_ don't like wood/high elves because of the Aldmeri dominion and great war and etc etc and also, nords are supposed to be built like houses and bosmer are small and squishy, so there's probably some physical issues there if one wanted to date or get in bed with another...

Anyway, thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read/follow/review/etc this!

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**Chapter Two**

**Lucille**

Her name was Lucille, apparently. Gallus spent a bit more time explaining to her the details of the heist later that evening, when Brynjolf wasn't around. He himself was informed afterward. They would take the guise of a couple named Bj_ö_rn and Ghardiel Hansson, he was to be an nord adventurer who abandoned his ways when he fell in love with her, the wood elf barmaid he met in a tavern. Or it was something along those lines, at least. Regardless, they left the next morning by horseback and made good progress.

Lucille was particularly silent on the journey, but if he spoke to her and tried to engage her in conversation, she obliged, so he reasoned that perhaps she was just used to minding her own business. Either way, they were at an inn half way to Windhelm by nightfall.

The inn itself was unremarkable but pleasant enough. It had a fire place downstairs were many of the guests were gathered, and a predictably annoying bard singing songs there as well. But if you stopped listening to his music and just focused on the flickering of the flames and the soft murmuring of voices, it was actually quite cozy. Brynjolf offered to fetch some dinner, although it wasn't much more than some bread and fruit, and he brought it to Lucille who he found in a quieter corner in front of the fireplace caring for her bow. She was sitting on the floor with her back to a wooden bench with cushions on it that was otherwise empty. Brynjolf didn't see the need to peruse the floor as a seat, and sat himself quite comfortably on the bench.

He leant down towards her and offered some bread and an apple. She took both with a polite thank you, put down her bow and started picking at the bread. She tore off little pieces and ate them individually, whereas Brynjolf who just took big bites out of his, some would say like a true nord.

"So, lass, tell me about you. How did you come to be in this... profession?" he asked pleasantly.

She shot him a look over her shoulder which seemed a little bit suspicious. He maybe looked a little affronted when he replied defensively, "I'm trying to be polite."

She relaxed then and returned her attention to the bread she was picking at as she spoke. "My parents were bosmer from Valenwood, but they traveled through Skyrim and Cyrodiil for many years as merchants."

"So they gave you an Imperial name?"

"Yes." Brynjolf started on his apple when she continued because his bread was finished. "Then they got ambushed by bandits outside Rorikstead." She sighed softly. "So the local innkeeper took me in when I was, perhaps, two or three? He and his wife were old, and they were both dead by the time I was teenager."

"And nobody wanted to adopt a teenage girl," he predicted.

"Preciously. So I ended up on the streets and picked pockets to get by, and hunted in the woods when I couldn't steal any food." She shrugged and glanced over her shoulder at him. "Probably not much different from the stories of most thieves out there."

"Very true." He twirled the finished apple core in his fingers as she started on her own one. He figured he'd return the favour and tell her a bit about himself. "My pa taught me how to be a thief, ma died when she gave birth to me." He reached for one of the two daggers that sat on his belt and pulled it out of it's sheath. "I was only a wee lad when he died. So I did the same as you."

He gestured to the dagger he was holding and she glanced at it. It was well made with intricate patterns on it and a sharp blade. "Didn't realise he was part of the guild till many years later when I wound up joining them. They gave me his things when I did."

"How did you end up joining?"

Brynjolf laughed softly at the memory and sheathed his daggers. "I tried to pickpocket Gallus, it didn't work of course. Instead of giving me a good flogging though, he recruited me." He gave her a meaningful look now. "He's a good man."

Lucille broke his eye contact and looked away, but added a soft, "you seem fond of him."

"Aye, he's the older brother I never had to look out for me." He paused for a moment and when he continued his voice was serious. "I would kill anyone who tries to hurt him."

Her eyebrows knitted together at that remark and she didn't reply at first, and when she did, it seemed forced – as if Brynjolf couldn't tell if she was saddened to hear of such a positive role model she had lacked, or for something else. "Lucky man."

He muttered a _mhmm_ in reply and the situation once more turned to silence. After awhile he had enough and got up, bid her a good night and left. Except that he didn't so much leave the room, as in that he left her side. He walked over to the counter were one of the maids was drying some mugs and leant on it. She didn't notice him at first until he cleared his throat.

The conversation that passed between them was as predictable and petty as the conversations he had used for every other wench Brynjolf had swept off her feet in inns. He leant close to her at the right time, whispered in her ear just the right words and let his fingers trail down her dress to just the right length. Had he not been so preoccupied with getting her into his bed, he might have noticed the look Lucille gave him. But even if he had, it wouldn't have deterred him much because no amount of head shaking had stopped him in the past.

o0o

They left early next morning on their horses and made good progress to the next town. Like the previous day, if Brynjolf engaged Lucille in smalltalk, she obliged. It was all rather nice, and then the rain hit. It was of course the end of Autumn, which meant that in this part of Skyrim the heavens opened up and the clouds seemed to take it upon themselves as a personal mission to drown the entire countryside. If it was colder, it would have snowed, which would have been quite nice, but it was at that awkward sort of temperature where it was cold and depressing, and the rain just turned into a half assed attempt at being frozen, which only served to completely and utterly soak you to the bone and freeze you simultaneously.

Brynjolf did not do wet very well at all. He was perhaps like any other nord in that he tended to be a depressing man in the winter, and cheerful in the summer, and the rain made him the most depressed of all. And the rain did not do him any favours either. Whereas Lucille got soaked just like him, in her wood elf nature, she wore it much better. For her, she looked almost as if she belonged in the forest even if she was drenched, and her hair curled pleasantly and there was the distinct fragrant smell of when it has just rained and everything smells clean and fresh and vibrant.

Brynjolf was the complete opposite. When he got wet in the rain, he looked like a drowned rat, had the personality of a cat who had just been dropped into a puddle, and smelt like a wet dog. So he was in a particularly foul mood for the rest of the trip. Some might say he had been sulking, if they weren't too concerned of where that might mean his daggers would end up. But at least when they reached the next inn he brightened up a bit, and he returned to his usual self when they told him their room would have a personal fireplace. Only to be consumed with disbelief when he realised they had to share a room because there was only that one free.

_Stupid inn with it's stupidly low number of rooms_, was something along the lines of what Brynjolf had said when he tramped up the stairs. Granted, it was a very popular inn, less than an hours walk from Windhelm which was appealing to many travelers who didn't want to stay in the city. So maybe it wasn't so surprising that it was in high demand.

Regardless, having their own fireplace was quite nice because it meant they could dry themselves off and only had to worry about being somewhat naked around each other, instead of around a bunch of other strangers. Brynjolf seemingly didn't have an issue pulling off his sodden shirt the moment he stepped into the room and throwing it to the floor with a wet 'splat' noise. Lucille only gave him the most fleeting look this time, and he didn't even notice it because he was too busy standing in front of the fire with his palms held up to the warmth.

Perhaps wood elves had a bit more modesty, or Brynjolf simply had a distinct lack of modesty in comparison to most other people, but Lucille took off her wet cloak and sat down cross legged in front of the fire in her shirt and breeches. She reached for her hair and started combing it with her fingers but they otherwise stayed there in a comfortable silence for a good few minutes.

Then, Brynjolf broke it. "I suppose this is fitting, considering we're meant to be pretending to be a married couple."

Lucille glanced up at him briefly. "Indeed."

"I'm still not sure this disguise is such a good idea, though." He glanced back down at her. His hair quite possibly might have more knots in it that was strictly physically possible at that moment, though it did rather look amusing. Then, he sat himself down now and started tugging at his boots.

"Why not?"

"Because it might be a bit _too_ over the top," Brynjolf replied.

Lucille shrugged as she tugged at a particularly stubborn knot that had formed in her hair. "I think it'll probably be more difficult for you tomorrow than me."

"Aye." Brynjolf sighed because he knew it was true. Lucille gave a good example of how some wood elves felt about nords – indifferent, passive but not outright hatred, whereas most nords decidedly erred more on the hatred and violence side of things towards wood elves. It was a lot easier to convert indifference into love than despising.

"I don't know..." Brynjolf shrugged. "Nords don't go for elves, I can nay help thinking we're going to attract too much attention tomorrow."

"They could if they wanted to," Lucille offered, but it wasn't particularly helpful.

"Yes, but they don't," he replied. "Even if you ignore history, physically... it's just too much effort."

She gave him a look that said he'd probably just dug himself into a whole he'd find it very difficult to get back out of.

"Uh-" he started, but she interrupted him.

"_Do_ explain."

"Lass," he tried to sound as reasonable as possible, "trust me when I say it's just easier if you're with someone who's more proportionate to you, you nay have to worry so much."

It wasn't so much that he wouldn't screw an wood elf (because he would, if he thought he'd stand half a chance of seducing one rather than ending up with an arrow in his neck), it was just if he had the choice between an elf and, say, an imperial or a redguard, he'd opt for the latter every time. There was much less effort involved in not hurting them. But he didn't dare try and explain that to her, because he'd probably just make things worse.

"Of course," she replied. He blinked. That wasn't really what he'd expected. "I mean, if you bedded a bosmer you might actually have to put some effort into it for a change, rather than just thinking about yourself."

He opened his mouth to reply, but then conceded that he probably deserved that comment. Their eyes met briefly and she gave a soft chuckle, and it was enough for him that she wasn't going to hold this unfortunate conversation against him too much.

After a few seconds of silence, Brynjolf gestured towards the bed. "You take it, I can sleep on the floor."

"No, it's ok," she replied, but there was a sense of appreciation for his offer in her voice. "I think I have more experience sleeping on the ground from hunting in the woods than you do, anyway."

He shrugged and didn't argue the point. Besides, he'd much rather have the bed anyway.


	3. The Heist

Thanks to everyone who's taking the time to read this!

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**The Heist**

They walked to Windhelm the next day – thankfully it had dried up a bit so their clothes didn't get muddy. Brynjolf wore a set of rather pompous looking finery (stolen, of course), and Lucille wore a modest deep blue dress (maybe stolen, he hadn't asked) that revealed very little skin except for a neckline that came down somewhat deep, but was still, all in all, pretty tame and respectable. They arrived at Pontus' mansion sometime before midday, and were greeted at the door by him. Whether Pontus was greeting every guest at the door or just them, Brynjolf wasn't sure.

Either way, it took less than a second for him to decide he did not like the man. Perhaps dislike was not the right word for it – Pontus was highly irritating but not rude.

"Helloo!" Pontus started (he had a very dramatic way of speaking which made Brynjolf arch an eyebrow initially.) "_Dahhlings_, I am _so_ glad you made it!"

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Lucille replied with a small curtsey. She was evidently somewhat decent at working with his ridiculous mannerisms. It was a credit to Gallus and Karliah's forging of their identity that Pontus immediately knew who they were supposed to be.

"No, no!" Pontus insisted. "The pleasure is all mine!" He gave them a wide grin. "Truly, you are an inspiration to us all!"

Brynjolf forced a smile. It probably looked a bit awkward, but Pontus didn't notice because he was too distracted being flamboyant.

"Please!" Pontus twirled around ridiculously as he spoke, before gesturing inside. "Do come in!"

They entered, and their host pranced off to do something or other. It wasn't long before somebody came up to them. Truly, Brynjolf thought, this was going to be a long day if everybody was going to approach them due to the novelty of their supposed relationship.

"Ah, a new guest!" It was a woman dressed in expensive clothes with a warm smile. "You must forgive my husband, he gets so excited sometimes. I'm sorry, but I don't recognise you?"

Brynjolf hesitated. He was a good at deceiving people, most of the time, but he realised then he didn't really know how to do married couple acting, or just couple of any kind at all really. "My name is Bjorn," he started a little awkwardly and gestured at Lucille. "And this is my wife Ghardiel. Whom I love very much."

He sounded very static and forced when he spoke. Pontus' wife gave him a strange look. Then, he felt Lucille's hand on his arm.

"You must forgive my husband," she said with just the right amount of faked embarrassment. "He used to be an adventurer, you see – but then he took an arrow to the head... He has had troubles with his speech since."

There was a moments pause, and then the woman smiled broadly and pinched Brynjolf's cheek affectionately. He could have killed her if he wasn't trying so hard to smile. "Oh, you poor thing! And how you still stood by him! You must really love him."

Lucille nodded and leant against him affectionately. He wrapped an arm around her as convincingly as he could. Thankfully, Pontus' wife released his cheek and gestured behind her. "Come! You must have some canapes – we bought in a chef from Cyrodiil especially for this event, he's very talented!"

They followed her and after a few moments Lucille leant up to whisper as inconspicuously in his ear as she could. "I _thought_ you were meant to be a good actor."

"I am," he replied defensively but obliged bending a little because she was struggling to reach his height, she was so much shorter than him. "But I don't particularly have much experience acting as if I'm in love."

"Well... just treat me like someone else you know who's in love acts."

He had the perfect person to imitate, and when they were introduced to another couple (two Imperials who looked so pompous they might even snub Skyrim's king), he affectionately said, "Ghardiel, my little nightingale, what did you think of the last book I wrote about the falmer?"

The woman of the Imperial couple looked surprised, but impressed. "You're a scholar? How lovely!"

Lucille hesitated. "Er, it was very well done, my love."

When they'd managed to extract themselves from that conversation, she shot him an incredulous look. "What exactly are you playing at?"

He realised now that maybe she was getting suspicious that he was trying to ruin her initiation test. He wasn't, of course. Whether she got in or not was completely up to her and he wouldn't sway it either way intentionally.

"That's how Gallus talks to Karliah," he replied defensively.

"Treat me _like_ Gallus treats Karliah then," she replied. "But for not word for word!"

He considered this for a few moments and realised he probably had sounded quite ridiculous. Finally, he figured he'd found the right persona to take on and wound his arm around her waist. She startled a little at first, but then leant into his side as they walked and their disguise seemed to work quite well now that they'd both sorted out what they were trying to be.

They'd made it into the trophy room where, in the centre in a fancy glass cabinet, the artefact was located, when they were interrupted by a large rotund high elf woman who was eating a sweet roll.

"A nord and a bosmer," she stated between bites, "how amusing. Tell me," she leant towards Lucille as if Brynjolf was invisible, "do you find him attractive? Most nords are so... brutish."

Lucille smiled coyly. "Of course." Then, she winked. "I like my men how I like my coffee, hot, strong... and with a spoon in them."

Brynjolf had made the unfortunate mistake of taking a glass of wine before she'd started talking, took a mouthful, and almost choked on her last comment. He tried extremely hard not to spit the wine back up on the other woman and coughed quite loudly. Coffee was a bitter drink, imported from Hammerfell, which was exceedingly popular in the winter when every nord and other person in Skyrim found it near physically impossible to wake up in the morning.

The other woman just chuckled merrily, however. "What a funny bosmer you are!" Then, she turned to him (he'd thankfully managed to compose himself by now.) "And what of you? There are not... issues... in the bedroom, I trust?"

Lucille was using the distraction to do something, but he couldn't make it out from the corner of his eye. He obliged by replying to her question and keeping the woman's attention for a few seconds longer.

"Nay," he said smoothly and with a suggestive look, "she always liked larger men." Perhaps part of it was payback for almost making him choke on his drink, but he noticed Lucille had stopped doing whatever it was she'd been doing, and he yanked her closer (possibly a bit excessively) and planted a kiss on her cheek (definitely too excessively). She smiled (albeit quite forced) but returned the embrace.

The high elf woman chuckled and took another bite out of her sweet roll. Lucille, he noticed, was glancing around the room. They were the only people in there, aside from a guard standing alert at the door but at the present it wouldn't be feasible to make a crack at stealing the artefact. Then the other woman turned an unpleasant shade of green and wavered a little.

"My dear," Lucille said empathetically, "are you alright?"

Clever girl had put something on her sweet roll when she'd been distracted.

"No, I..." the high elf started and burped loudly. Brynjolf readied himself to move to the side in case all the food she'd been eating decided to come back up again.

"Excuse me, guard!" Lucille waved and attracted the guards attention. "Could you help this woman, please? She feels unwell."

He looked annoyed and tried to protest, but the high elf gagged and looked like she was about to vomit, so he hurriedly led her away before something unpleasant happened. So they were alone in the room with just a locked case between them and their prize.

Lucille approached the display cabinet and glanced around cautiously. Brynjolf crossed his arms and observed what she was going to do silently. She reached for her hair, where she had two elegant sticks pushed through her locks, that she'd put in a bun. She pulled them out, and he realised as she twisted them that they came apart and had lockpicks inside. Perhaps she thought they were going to be frisked at the entrance to the estate, and if so, the guards probably would look past her hair do, the most usual places for suspect things was in boots, strapped to legs or down the front of dresses.

Either way, she started fiddling with the lock promptly. She didn't undo it particularly fast or slowly, just within an average amount of time. It didn't matter, she had the artefact in her hand soon enough – it was a small carving of some kind, Gallus would know more about it. She slipped it down the front of her dress (really, Brynjolf wondered sometimes why women didn't just have pockets sewn there, seeing as that's what they seemed to use them for most of the time) and they were done.

Prize in hand, they left as promptly as they could and with as little attention as they could manage. Lucille handed the artefact to him the moment they were out of sight of the estate and they started to return back to the inn where their horses where. With any luck, they'd at least clear the city gates before anybody caught on to what had happened.

o0o

Tonight at the inn, he decided, he would acknowledge that she was reasonably talented and that she had done quite well that day at the mansion. It seemed the polite thing to do, credit where credit was due and such. Brynjolf wasn't a spiteful man, he could give compliments where they were deserved, and in this case, it was so. Lucille was sitting at a table alone in the inn when he found her, he'd gone up to their room first to safely stow away their prize. She had a plate in front of her with a pie of some kind of savory description, and was sucking on the end of her fork in thought.

When he pulled up a chair next to her, it jostled her out of her revere and she returned to actually eating the pie in front of her. Brynjolf waved at one of the bar maids and inclined that he'd rather like some too. It wasn't exactly a private scenario, but, he figured it was as good a time as any to talk to her – so long as he didn't go blurting out specific details of their guild or talk too loudly.

"Lass," he started and it drew her attention to him. "Credit where credit is due, you did well today."

She smiled at him, it wasn't broad or cheerful, just simple and appreciative. "Thank you."

"You're quite good at deceiving people," he added as his own plate of pie arrived, "most people I know aren't very good at hiding in plain sight, you managed quite well."

"And I probably couldn't sneak into places as well as they could," she offered in return. "People have their strengths and weaknesses. True talent is making the most of them."

He chuckled. "True enough. Still, you put on a good facade... makes me wonder if this isn't another one."

She gave a little laugh, but it was kind of awkward and she cleared her throat afterward and took another mouthful of pie.

"Lass," he started once more, but she cut him off.

"I've been wondering," she said quicker than usual, "why do you call me that?"

He could feel his cheeks heating a little and he waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Lucille, it's not-" he struggled to find the right words without sounding rude. "It's nay personal, don't read into it more than-"

"I didn't mean it like _that._" She gave him an ironic look. "Besides, I think you made that pretty clear last night anyway. I meant why do you call _anybody_ lass?"

He felt slightly embarrassed now for assuming she'd been prying for something more to their relationship. Eventually he answered her question while pushing an errant piece of pie around on his plate with his fork. "My pa used to call people lass or lad, I just... I got into the habit of copying him."

She gave him a thoughtful look but didn't reply otherwise. He considered what she'd said and something occurred to him that hadn't the previous night.

"Do you face much racism in Skyrim?" he asked, and his voice was a little softer than he'd otherwise intended.

She stopped eating and sat in what looked like thought for a few seconds, and then replied. "Yes, but..." she paused and he prompted her to continue with a raised eyebrow. "But if I keep to myself and mind my own business, most people leave me alone." Then, as if eager to change the subject, she added, "what about you? How do you feel about the Empire?"

"I don't really care," he replied with a shrug and pushed a piece of pie around on his plate. "There's always going to be someone in authority, and in my – our – profession, it doesn't really matter who."

"So long as there's things to repossess and bar maids to sweep of their feet, you don't care?"

He cast her a sidelong look and couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips. "What can I say? I put the effort in."

She laughed then at his reference to the previous night. It was a pleasant sound, he decided.


	4. A Welcoming

Thank you to anon Manu for your lovely review :)) I try to reply to all reviews personally but can't for anonymous reviews!

Thanks for everyone who takes the time to read/review/follow/etc this! :)

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**A Welcoming**

The artefact glinted off the candle light when Gallus twisted it in his fingers. It had gems in it of some kind – maybe if Brynjolf had intended to pawn it off he would have figured out what kind, but he hadn't bothered because he'd never have thought to sell it. Whatever it was, though, Gallus was interested in it. Very interested, because staring at it was all he'd been doing for the last thirty minutes or so at least. Gallus himself had come back earliier than he had anticipated, and Brynjolf had, to some surprise, found him in the Cistern when he returned from the Windhelm heist. Lucille was somewhere in the Ratways right now, probably. It was sort of tradition for all new members of the guild to find their way to the flagon the first time through the Ratways. People would complain about unfair treatment if they stopped doing it now.

"Poor girl probably didn't have any idea how much this is worth," Gallus said with a little laugh after a few moments "Otherwise – Lucille, was it? - might have just made off with it and buggered joining us."

"I'm not so sure," Brynjolf replied, but he nodded to affirm that was actually her name. He'd go out later and see if she made it there alright (he had an obligation considering he was the one who observed her initiation test.) But, for now he was slumped in a chair in Gallus' private room, one leg across the other and carefully rubbing some oil into the wooden handle of one of his daggers. He took good care of them – some might say spent too much time on them, too.

"Oh?" Gallus cast him a look from where he was lying on his bed, feet propped up on the end of the frame.

"She's nay so material as some of the other people around here," he continued offhandedly. "She could have taken any number of small valuables while we were in the mansion, but she didn't. At least not that I noticed."

"But you did, of course."

Brynjolf grinned and pulled a small purse from one of his pockets and dumped it on the table beside him. It made a jingling sound that sounded suspiciously like gold and jewellery.

"So, honour among thieves, or something like that with her?" Gallus suggested.

"Perhaps." He didn't really believe that was it and he frowned. "How _did_ Mercer say he found her?"

Gallus returned the frown, pocketed the artefact and stroked his chin. "He didn't." After a few moments, he shrugged. "I'll ask him when he's back from his job with Karliah." Karliah, evidently, had not returned straight to the guild when Gallus had, or if she did she was gone by the time Brynjolf returned.

The older man shifted on his bed to prop himself up on one arm. A few seconds passed when Brynjolf felt distinctly as if he was being observed, and it made him uncomfortable, so he eventually glanced up and said, "what?"

"You care for those daggers almost as much as your father did."

Brynjolf stopped what he was doing and glanced down at them. Gallus had known his father, that much he knew, but he didn't speak of him often. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know more or not – it was kind of like a double edged blade because part of him desperately wanted a connection, and part of him wanted to forget he even had parents so it didn't hurt to think about them.

"He used to sit at the counter of the flagon for hours and carve those patterns into the handles." Gallus hummed in thought, then added, "he never told me where he got them."

He considered whether he wanted to push this conversation further or not, but eventually he gave in. "How well did you know him?"

"Very well," Gallus said, but there was a tinge of sadness to his voice, as if bringing up these memories upset him just as much as Brynjolf was uncertain he even wanted to hear them in the first place. "He was my partner on jobs for years when I first joined the guild." The imperial sent a pointed look at him. "He used to talk about you all the time."

Part of Brynjolf was overjoyed to think that his father had cared enough to mention him to his colleagues, but he'd hate to actually admit it to anyone – even Gallus.

"He used to say you had your mother's hair," he continued.

The nord glanced at his hair. When he was younger, he used to think it was the dumbest shade of red and had rubbed mud into it to make him look more like the rest of the children he'd grown up with. They'd teased him for not being blond or having dark hair like most nords did. In truth, the further north you got in Skyrim the darker haired and stockier people got, maybe to attract and conserve as much heat as possible or something because it was so damn cold up there. Blond hair was typically more common in the south. But red hair was not common anywhere in Skyrim. Still, he'd gotten over it when he grew up. But his hair perhaps had grown a little bit too long in the last year or so, he had to put it in a pony tail now. He'd have it cut soon, he decided.

"But you have your father's eyes – and his grin." Gallus smiled at him. "I knew who you were the moment I caught you trying to cut my purse in the streets."

Brynjolf grimaced a little at the memory – he'd been such an fool back then, but in hindsight, it was kind of amusing. A little street urchin with mud on his knees thinking he could pilfer coins from the head of the Thieves Guild itself.

Gallus sighed and turned onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "He didn't really want this life for you." That hurt a little and the nord briefly considered saying that perhaps his father shouldn't have taught him to be a thief in the first place if that was the case. "But I think he'd be proud of you. Even if you are a dog."

"Ey?" Brynjolf scowled at him. "I am not-"

"Yes you are, you've slept with half the women in Riften who are within a ten year age gap of you." Gallus laughed brightly though, as if he didn't really disapprove of his promiscuity at the end of things, even if he thought he could do better with his life. "He loved your mother, would have wanted you to find the same. Not become a heart breaker."

Brynjolf shrugged. "Maybe in a few years."

Gallus shot him an accusing look but couldn't stop the grin on his features. "We both know that's not going to happen."

He'd been caught – though in truth he hadn't been serious in what he'd said anyway. Brynjolf chuckled and stretched his hands up in the air. Maybe he could tone things down just a little bit, it had gotten a bit out of hand in the last year or two.

There was a moment of silence, and then Gallus added quietly, "I wouldn't be guild master if it wasn't for your father. I owe him a lot."

"Aye, so you're going to make sure his son grows up to be a well adjusted member of society to repay the debt." Brynjolf cast him a smug look. "I think you may have missed that opportunity."

Gallus laughed so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye. After a few moments he stood up and walked over to the nord who just looked up at him blankly.

"I was twenty two when the old guild master retired and your father vouched for me to take the position. I was the youngest guild master in history. He could have taken the position himself without any opposition," Gallus gave him a pointed look, "and many people expected him to. But he didn't want it, not when he had you to look after... He gave up a lot to raise you."

Brynjolf sighed. It was exactly this kind of deep meaningful stuff that he tried to avoid, but somehow Gallus always had a way of roping him into it. It was annoying. Eventually he muttered a curse under his breath and admitted what the imperial had probably been trying to get him to say for years.

"Aye, I wish I could have known him better, before..." He didn't need to say it out loud, they both knew what he'd meant. A few moments passed and he added softly, "how did he die?"

Gallus' brow creased and he glanced away, as if considering whether he needed to know or not. As far as Brynjolf was considered, he deserved to know and he was old enough now that he didn't need protecting any longer. But Gallus certainly knew this, because he turned back to look at him with a sympathetic look.

"He was killed on a job a year after I became guild master." The imperials eye's narrowed and his gaze became a bit distant as if he was thinking back on what had happened. "Some people just said he got careless, or unlucky. But the guards knew he was there and they killed him outright – no arrest, nothing."

"You think somebody tipped them off?" Brynjolf asked hesitantly.

"Yes." Gallus stepped away from him and paced the room with his arms crossed, as if this were still a mystery he was trying to solve to this day. "It looked too suspicious. I interrogated every member of the guild, but I couldn't find any real proof. I even turned to the Dark Brotherhood, but they denied it – even went so far as to remind me that accusing them wouldn't be good for our allegiance."

Brynjolf had his own opinions of their guild's relationship with the Dark Brotherhood. He wasn't keen on it, they were too brutal and sadistic sometimes. But they needed them from time to time and they were useful – and perhaps more important than anything, they were handy to have where they could see them (in the metaphorical sense), instead of skulking behind their back in the shadows. They had a standing arrangement that the assassin's wouldn't accept a contract against a guild member, and they probably didn't like being accused of the contrary. But a very large part of Brynjolf suspected that if their sick faith in Sithis demanded them to fulfil a contract against a guild member, then they'd still do it – even go so far as blame it on the guard or somebody else so nobody figured out it was really them.

"So I never really worked it out, but I wish I could because if I found out who it was then I think it would be _me_ performing the dark sacrament," Gallus muttered with a hint of anger or annoyance.

He paused in his pacing and shook his head with a frustrated curse, then dropped that line of conversation. "I tried to find you when he died, though. But I think you had long disappeared into the Ratways by then."

"Thanks for the thought at least," Brynjolf offered.

Gallus smiled at him. "I think I've made up for it since, hmm?"

Brynjolf shrugged but couldn't stop a small grin tugging at his lips.

o0o

Brynjolf wondered out into the flagon a while later, and by some stroke of impeccable luck, or maybe just coincidence, Lucille seemed to have just arrived. People were staring at her (which they usually did if anybody new turned up, you think they'd put two and two together after a while because new recruits weren't exactly a rarity) and one or two were awkwardly looking as if they wondered whether they should go over and see what she wanted. He figured he'd go over and put them out of their misery.

"Lass." He waved a hand and caught her attention, and everybody else relaxed in knowing that she was at least known to one of the guild members. Regardless, she walked over. "I see you made it well enough."

"Of course."

He arched an eyebrow momentarily, but then gestured behind him to a man standing behind the bar counter. His name was Stig, and he was an old, grumpy nord man who repeatedly stated that he wanted to retire somewhere warm and was just waiting for the right time. When the right time was, nobody knew, but Brynjolf suspected it would be soon.

"That old sod is Stig," he said and walked her over to the counter. "He'll get you sorted out with some better armour than..." he raked his eyes up her body briefly, then settled on, "whatever that is you're wearing."

She seemed a little affronted by his comment. Her armour wasn't bad per-say, it was well looked after and had probably been made by a decent armoursmith – but they had better and more specific armour to sneaking, and it was tradition. Thieves were fond of their traditions.

"Eh?" Stig narrowed his eyes at Brynjolf suspiciously. "What you doing going and bringing me an elf, gingerballs?"

The red head managed a thin, but innocently sweet, smile at him. He'd bring up the use of his unwanted nickname later. Regardless, Stig rolled his eyes and added, "you know I stopped making armour for them elves after Karliah figured out how to dodge."

Stig was being perhaps a bit cruel – Karliah was an archer and had some difficulties earlier on dodging attacks in melee range. Of course she'd improved vastly now but Stig liked to pretend she'd needed a new set of armour once a week because she got stabbed so much – which was entirely untrue.

"Well," Brynjolf started, "this elf needs a set. So perhaps you could do your job for a change and arrange one, hmm?"

"Yeah." Stig snorted and gave Lucille a calculating look. "Hmph. You send me your measurements, I'll figure something out." Then, he added to a very audible aside to himself, "bleeding elves, couldn't just fit into the same armour as everybody else, because _no_, they have to be _different_."

In truth, no member of the guild got a new set of armour that didn't need some tweaking and adjusting to become a good fit. But someone of Lucille's slight frame would not fit into the armour they usually stocked for nord's or imperials, no matter how much tweaking they did. It had been exactly the same for Karliah, and one of the other guild members who was a khajiit – although in his case it was mostly to accommodate for the tail.

"Stig can also fence things for you," Brynjolf told her and then gestured around the room. "You can see Frederick, Mhar'jazarg or Tove if you want some work."

He yawned then, perhaps he didn't realise how tired he was up until then, but he waved a hand in front of his mouth and mumbled an apology. When he'd composed himself, he glanced at her and continued. "Well, I'm sure you can get yourself into trouble from here, lass."

She shrugged but he was confident she could manage to at least not get thrown into jail or do something spectacularly stupid within a week.

"Just make sure you tell the others who you are," he added. "They have a tendency to shoot first, ask questions later, if they don't recognise someone."

She laughed a little. "I'll try to remember."

"Makes nay difference to me either way, I won't be the one cleaning up the mess." He'd forfeited that responsibility when he stopped being the new person in the guild which he was immensely thankful for. He gave her a brief smile. "Welcome to the Thieve's guild."


	5. Fluffy

Thanks again to anyone who's taken the time to read & follow/favourite/review/etc this!

Just a note too, I will be away over the Christmas/New Year period (as I'm going to London, yay!) so I won't be updating over that period... Might get another update in before Christmas, or perhaps in the few days between Christmas and New Year, but if I don't, then happy holidays to everyone and I'll continue with this story in the New Year!

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**Fluffy**

It was maybe a week since he'd returned to Riften, and Karliah and Mercer had come back a few days ago. People were bustling around, doing their usually thiefy things, but he wasn't.

Instead, he was bored. Really, Brynjolf had to find something to do before he started banging his head against the bar counter and/or pleading for something interesting to happen. He hadn't quite gotten to that point yet, but he was still sitting at the bar in the flagon, chin slumped in one hand and the other wrapped around a mead bottle. He probably looked spectacularly depressing, but it didn't stop Stig taunting him for a reaction.

"Hey," the older man started, "gingernuts." Brynjolf didn't even have the motivation to scowl at him for using that term. "Why don't you drag your sorry self out of here and go do something?" Stig leant on the other side of the bar on his big, beefy arms. "Like, go do some woman like you normally do. Or something. Just so long as you quit sitting here looking depressed, it's making me want to cry."

"I'm trying to stop sleeping around," Brynjolf replied halfheartedly and without really completely understanding the conversation he was replying to at all.

Stig barked a laugh. "Shave my ass and call me an elf!" He gave him a knowing look. "You'll stop being a dog when the fucking _dragons_ come back."

The redhead just made a mmmph sort of noise in return. Maybe he'd go out later, but he felt so bored he couldn't even be bothered dragging himself out of the flagon let alone his chair.

After a few moments a ragged, furry(ish – it had large bald patches) creature walked along the counter in front of his face. It stopped nearby him, gave a heaving sort of gagging motion, and spewed up what looked suspiciously like a skeever's head. Stig made an angry motion and grabbed a knife.

"Get out of here!" He stabbed the creature square in the stomach and there was a horrified gasp nearby. Both nords glanced up and saw Lucille standing there with a facial expression somewhere between disbelief, and perhaps disgust.

"Don't worry yourself, you damn tree hugger," Stig started offhandedly as Brynjolf glumly pulled the knife out of the creature's (which somewhat resembled a bedraggled cat) stomach – as if this were a completely normal thing to do. "Stupid thing's been undead for years. See?" The cat pranced off again, leaving the unpleasant skeever head on the bench. "Got turned into a zombie. Now it walks around eating skeever's and vomiting their heads back up in my bleeding bar."

"We call her Fluffy," Brynjolf said in a drawl and used the knife to push the skeever head onto the floor with an unpleasant squelching noise.

"Isn't that a bit... ironic? She's lost half her fur." Lucille's features looked significantly less horrified now, and more just perplexed.

Brynjolf shrugged. "She was a forest cat before she got turned into a zombie."

"Looked like a ridiculous walking carpet, she did." Stig gestured towards the cat which was making another gagging motion on the floor. "Now look at her."

Forest cats were a common breed of native cat in Skyrim, so named because they, well, lived in the forest before they became domesticated. They were extremely fluffy and had crested fur on the tips of their ears. Some people, mostly immigrants, called them elf cats because of the ears. This cat, though, looked like half of her fur had fallen out – and the other half might soon follow. What bits of skin that were visible were a sickly sort of colour, and her eyes were a creepy white that made her look very hollow.

Lucille glanced gingerly at the cat. "How did she become undead?"

"Frederick brought back some little relic a few years back," Stig explained. "Put it on the counter one day and got distracted for a few seconds. She'd eaten it before anybody could stop her and it turned her like that."

"Nobody really bothered trying to cure her," Brynjolf added. "And it never wore off either."

"So that's why we have an undead cat walking around the guild," Stig said. Then added, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to have an undead pet cat, "simple, really."

There was a moment of silence when Lucille seemed as if she wasn't entirely certain whether having an undead cat was actually simple at all, and Brynjolf continued with his glum expression – albeit this time he was twiddling the knife absent-mindedly in his fingers. After a few moments, Stig broke it.

"You want a mead, elf?"

Lucille glanced up at him. "No, thank-"

She didn't even get the chance to finish her sentence because Stig looked so affronted that one might have thought she'd just killed his mother. Thieves did not refuse mead in this bar, except Karliah – and everybody had heard that argument when the dark elf had quite firmly stated something along the lines of _I will never consume this vile excuse for a drink in my life even if you try and force it down my throat. _The entire population of Riften, even those who _didn't_ live in the Ratways, had probably heard Stig's response to that. Brynjolf had felt, at the time, as if his ears were ringing for a week afterwards.

"Um, I mean... yes?" Smart girl seemed to have picked up on the fact Stig looked like he might throttle her with his bare hands right then and there. Granted, you'd have to be a pretty special person _not_ to pick up on that.

Stig handed her a bottle of mead and mumbled something derogatory about elves and their pansy no-mead holier-than-thou attitude to himself. She didn't seem to notice, or decided it would be better for her continuing health to pretend as if she didn't notice, and instead gingerly took a small sip of mead. Her brow creased and then a strange expression came over her – as if she was actually a little bit surprised that it tasted nicer than she thought it would.

"Been getting up to mischief yet, lass?" Brynjolf said after a few moments, still twirling the blade in his fingers.

"Yes," she replied as she licked her lips the tiniest bit – as if still trying to make a decision about if she liked the mead or not. Brynjolf made a concious decision to look away from her mouth at that point, lest his often entirely inappropriate mind draw conclusions he didn't particularly want it to draw at the present time, and far less about her. "I went on a job Frederick suggested, stole a tomb from a dunmer mage passing through Riften."

He gave her a look of vaguely seeming impressed. "Nice going."

She smiled and shrugged, but Stig interrupted her as he wiped an incredibly foul looking cloth over a plate to dry it. Brynjolf made a mental note to himself to never eat here again.

"Still working on fencing that tomb for you," the older nord said in his gruff voice. "Think I got a perfect buyer lined up. But you did a good job of not getting your ass burned off on that job or your pretty little elfy hair turned into ashes. Bleeding dunmer are all pyromaniacs – _especially_ the mages."

Coming from Stig, that almost-compliment might as well have been a declaration of love. Either way, Lucille did have rather elvish hair. It was a quite nice shade of copper and came down around her shoulders, and unlike Brynjolf's flaming red hair, he didn't think it looked ridiculously out of place on her. But this was mostly because she was a bosmer and copper or red hair wasn't so uncommon for them.

"And I'm still working on your armour," Stig added. "Give it another week or so."

"There's no rush," Lucille replied.

Stig grunted and muttered one of his particularly characteristic phrases. "Yeah."

o0o

"Ohh, _Brynjolf_."

The way she purred his name, it made him want to pounce on her, take her then and bugger all the people watching. But he could draw it out just a little bit more. He always did. It was more than just tumble for him, it was a game. And he always won. Or at least he liked to think so. Regardless, having this woman (what was her name again? He hadn't really paid attention) fawning over him felt good. It far beat the boredom of sitting in the flagon, and here, with one arm against the wall and her pressed between him and it, he felt back to his usual suave, too-smooth self.

He ignored the little niggling voice in the back of his mind which said really, he should stop making a habit of doing this – it was starting to become an unhealthy obsession. He'd been slapped in the face by some woman earlier that day. Presumably one he'd slept with and left hanging (as he did to every single woman he slept with, so it wasn't like she'd been slighted any different but she seemed more than a little bit pissed off at him.)

Regardless, he smiled at the woman he was with. She was a vain sort of beautiful, the kind of woman that had grown up being told she was pretty and firmly believed she was so. So unlike Lucille. Lucille didn't seem to give much bother to her appearance other than ensuring that she didn't look as if she'd just rolled out of bed and started the day without even brushing her hair. Ironic perhaps, that she was probably more beautiful than whoever this woman was that Brynjolf had forgotten the name of, simply because her life didn't seem to revolve around attracting a man.

He frowned and realised he wasn't entirely sure why he was thinking of Lucille. The woman pressed up against him, caught his gaze and bit at her lip. "Is something wrong?"

"Hmm?" he murmured absently. Then, he snapped back to the current situation and smiled at her. "You know," he purred, "I like my women like I like my coffee..."

She cocked her head at him and made a pouting face which he guessed was meant to signal, _do go on. _

"Hot," he started and a hand to run up her thigh, "strong..." He held her gaze and was pleased to note that a little moan escaped her lips (it was probably forced, but he didn't really care.) "...and with a spoon in them."

Her expression turned to confusion in a snap. "With a spoon in them?"

He gaped, somewhat unable to comprehend he had just in fact said that. What a stupid pick up line, where did he get that one from? He half scowled as he realised where. Lucille. Then, he shrugged. Must be an elf thing, he figured, maybe they were weird like that.

There was an awkward cough from behind him and Brynjolf glanced over his shoulder in annoyance. Frederick, who was another nord thief in the guild, was standing there, arms crossed. The other man gave a brief glance at the woman pinned beneath him, then back at the redhead. "I think you might want to come with me."

If Frederick had went out of his way to come and get him, then it must be serious. It wasn't so much that Frederick disliked Brynjolf, but in general no thief went around dragging other thieves back to their headquarters without a good reason – and especially not when they were in the middle of trying to get into bed with some comely lass. There was a secret code between thieves not to interrupt each other when you were about to get laid. Unless it was really important, of course. Brynjolf turned back to the woman and gave her an empathetic look. He leant forward and spoke in her ear.

"Perhaps we could continue this another time?" Then, he took her ear lobe in his mouth and sucked on it briefly, before pulling back, giving her a sly smile, and walking away.

It was only when they were walking out the door of the tavern that she screamed at him something that sounded suspiciously like _dirty thief!_

Frederick raised an eyebrow at him as they walked through the streets. Brynjolf shrugged innocently, raised a hand to his lips and spat out the woman's ruby earring into his hand.

* * *

So just a note on Fluffy: I got the idea of her from a person I used to know who had a really bizarre cat who would hunt and eat mice/rats, and then vomit their heads back up the next day... and yeah that's about it, kind thought it would be some funny comic relief if things start to get a bit too serious to have an undead cat walk around vomiting skeever heads!


	6. The Break-In

I found time to do one more chapter before Christmas, but this is definitely the last one until the new year as I will be away until at least about the 7th of January! Anyway, happy holidays (again) to everyone! And thanks to the people who've taken the time to read/review/etc this, I appreciate all your comments!

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**The Break-In**

"Avast! Die, ye foul thief!"

The rolling pin swung at him so fast that Brynjolf only had the briefest of seconds to dodge it. He ducked almost comically, and then heard the sickening crack of the cooking implement contacting with somebody's nose. Judging by the fact that the somebody who had been walking behind him up until that point was Frederick, the redhead put two and two together and guessed it was _his_ nose.

Brynjolf hesitantly stood up and glanced over his shoulder. There was blood pouring out of Frederick's aforementioned nose and he looked not particularly impressed, not that he blamed him, given the circumstances.

"By the divines!" Frederick shouted. Brynjolf decided he had quite the right to be pissed off. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

The attacker, who was in fact Stig, looked marginally sheepish. He had the rolling pin flung over his shoulder and was wearing an apron. Presumably, when he'd been summoned as Brynjolf had, he'd seen it fit to grab the first weapon he could find. And Stig, being more inclined to working in the flagon, discovered that the best weapon at hand was often a rolling pin. Perhaps he'd run out of knives because he'd been throwing them at Fluffy all day long. (It was fairly common that the biggest supply requirement for the guild was cooking knives because Stig lost them all when he used Fluffy as target practice.)

"Bah," Stig mumbled. "Thought you were the burglar coming back for a second try."

"Are you mad?" Frederick gave Brynjolf an appreciative look when the redhead handed him a piece of cloth to staunch his bleeding nose. "Or do you just need to go to the temple to get your eyes looked at? Because you'll definitely need to go there after I kick your good for nothing arse!"

"Enough, both of you," Gallus interrupted. "And Stig, put that rolling pin down."

The large nord man reluctantly lowered his impromptu weapon. They were, all seven of them, in the cistern. Them, being Karliah, Gallus, Mercer, Stig, Tove, Brynjolf, and Frederick, where the important people in the guild. Or at least, they were the people that got together when something potentially suspicious within the guild had taken place. If there _was_ something suspicious within the guild, the new or lesser members were strictly forbidden to enter the cistern (or wherever it was they were discussing the situation) while said discussions were taking place, such as in this circumstance.

Frederick hadn't told Brynjolf what was going on when they'd walked back to the guild – whether because he didn't know or didn't want to say, the redhead couldn't guess. Still, he'd put together the reason now from what had been said, and it worried him.

"Did someone try to break in?" Brynjolf asked and there was the sound of Frederick popping his nose back into a more appropriate location.

"Yes," Karliah replied. She looked worried as she gestured over her shoulder to the door that led to Gallus' private quarters. The keyhole was smoking faintly and spluttering.

"Well, at least now we know the trap on the lock worked," Mercer muttered in an almost annoyed fashion.

"Never mind that it might have been at the threat of Gallus' life!" Karliah retorted hotly.

Mercer gave her an unimpressed look. "Girl, you're making a pretty grand jump from some upstart's failed theft to attempted murder."

The dark elf gave him a thoroughly volatile look which probably would have made Brynjolf feel uneasy. "You of all people should know better."

"While I appreciate the concern," Gallus interrupted before something unfortunate happened, "I think in this circumstance, Mercer is probably right."

Karliah calmed down a little bit then, but she didn't seem entirely satisfied. Tove, who was a tall, proud nord woman who coincidentally enjoyed making Brynjolf's life hell (it may or may not be because he slept with her) decided to add her piece then.

"Search the other guild members," she said. "That trap will have burnt anyone's fingers who tried to break in."

The lock had been trapped for ages and would trigger if anybody tried to pick it or otherwise open it without the correct key, of which only one and two copies existed. Brynjolf cast his gaze to the door, then to the floor and noticed some gloves. He walked over and picked them up, displaying them to the others. They were singed but not burnt through, so he raised them to one of the torches on the wall and held them in the flames. They did not burn or become hot, instead the leather resisted the heat.

"Whoever did it had fire resistance enchantments on their gloves," he started and withdrew the gloves from the flames. "The trap would have been hot enough to overcome them, but it looks like they gave enough protection for the thief to pull them off before they got hurt because the material hasn't burnt through."

The look Tove gave him would have made some lesser men cower in terror. Brynjolf was quite used to the way she treated him by now, though, and merely scowled back at her.

"So unless you want to go and interrogate everybody who wears gloves in the guild, I think we're out of leads," Mercer said.

Karliah looked as if she would quite like to debate that comment, but decided not too. Frederick muttered, almost only to himself, "are you even sure it _was_ somebody from the guild?"

"Come now," Gallus shook his head and looked a little bit mock offended, "do you value the security of this establishment so poorly?"

Frederick shrugged. His nose had stopped bleeding now at least, but the cloth he'd used was soaked in blood.

"Although in light of current events, I think some new measures might be a good idea," Gallus continued with a frown.

"Right," Stig said and clutched his weapon tightly. "Rolling pins for everybody and a horde of draugr guarding the flagon just in case."

Frederick looked thoroughly unimpressed. "I'll kill him."

"Want some help?" Brynjolf offered.

"Really, it's like babysitting children sometimes." Gallus laughed a little but sobered moments later. "Mercer, Karliah, I think we can continue this discussion in private."

Although all seven of them were the 'important' people in the guild, Mercer, Gallus and Karliah were the... well, most important was the best way of putting it. Gallus because he was guild master, Mercer because he was the second in charge, and Karliah because she was Karliah and Gallus didn't do anything without her. She was perhaps the unofficial third in charge, if such a thing existed.

Gallus turned to the rest of them with a faint smile. "If you find anything else, let me know. And Stig, find someone to replace the trap on that lock, would you?"

"Right, traps and rolling pins." Stig saluted their guildmaster with his weapon. Frederick looked like he might just give throttling the other nord with his bare hands a try.

o0o

He was walking casually through the cistern the next day when he found her, crouched in a corner with a bucket of water and a piece of cloth. He didn't think anything of it until he'd passed her, then stopped as his brain informed him that he'd seen something red and suspiciously blood-like, and so he retreated a few steps backwards. Brynjolf peered at her. Lucille was rubbing at her cheek with the wet cloth, and he realised it was because there was a gash of significant size running from just below her eye to her chin. It didn't look very pleasant.

"Ey?" He approached her but she didn't notice at first. "What's happened to you, lass?"

She glanced up at him and paused what she was doing. There was blood running down her neck and under her armour. Then, she looked away and dipped the cloth back in the water. "It's nothing."

"Nothing?" he scoffed at her and crouched down to be at her level. "That's a very deep wound for something that's supposedly _nothing_."

She hesitated with her eyes downcast for a moment. "I got into a fight. That's all."

He frowned at her. It didn't completely add up, she didn't particularly look like she'd been in a fight, aside from the gash. "You don't have any bruises," he commented, "and the rest of you looks fine."

"I was attacked, and I ran away before they got the chance to stab me with a knife anywhere _else_," she snapped. "I was under the impression that was an appropriate thing to do in such a circumstance."

"You don't have to get your knickers in a twist," he countered with a pointed look. She opened her mouth in a retort, but seemed to decide against it and sighed.

Lucille dipped the cloth in the bucket and squeezed the excess water out. "Sorry."

Brynjolf shrugged and sat down beside her. There was a moment of awkward silence where she tried to clean the wound herself, before he grabbed at her hand in some annoyance. "Give me that, you can't see what you're doing."

She froze when he touched her, but relinquished the cloth without complaint. She refused to meet his gaze though as he pushed the cloth onto the gash as gently, but firmly, as he could. Still, even with her eyes downcast he could still see them narrow and her teeth grit when he forced the cloth into the cut to clean it properly. It no doubt hurt, but better that he get any dirt out of it now, then it become infected later.

After a few moments he moved to start scrubbing the blood off her cheek. "Did they attack you because you're an elf?" he asked softly.

She didn't reply at first, as if considering what she was going to say before opening her mouth. Eventually, she settled on, "perhaps, but I didn't really stick around to find out."

He considered pushing the subject and mentioning that it would be pretty unusual to not even be sure of the reason for why somebody had attacked you. Even in Skyrim, most nords would at least say something before they went at you with a knife, people didn't go around stabbing each other without some kind of threat beforehand. But he didn't push the subject, because he did have some sense about him and realised that if she was being so hesitant as it was, she probably wouldn't appreciate him prying any more.

Her cheek was clean now and he glanced at her neck, but hesitated before continuing with what he was doing. "Lass?" he prompted. She looked up at him. "You've got blood under your armour."

She gave him a thankful look and took the cloth from him. He gave her the benefit of looking away when she reached under the neckline of her leathers to wipe as much of the blood away as she could before it dried there. After a few moments he heard the sound of the cloth being dropped back into the bucket of water, and a soft laugh. Brynjolf frowned and glanced back at her.

"What?" he prompted.

"I didn't expect you to respect my modesty." He probably looked more than a little bit affronted, because she laughed again and added, "I was talking to Tove earlier, she said to watch myself around you."

"Did she?" He maybe scowled a little bit. "I'll need to have some words with her later on, I think."

In truth, he wasn't so much annoyed that Tove had tried to make it out like he couldn't contain himself around a woman (because in truth, it was somewhat accurate what she'd said), but he was tired of the woman and her snide comments. He'd realised quite quickly that sleeping with her was a pretty big mistake, because she'd been persistently aggressive to him since. And by being aggressive, he meant that she'd go out of her way to be rude and unpleasant to him and spread rumours behind his back, including one that he was diseased which had taken a _lot_ of effort to disperse last year.

"You're better off not listening to her," he said with an audible hint of irritation. "She's a conniving little bitch who couldn't steal a sweet roll from a wee child because she's too busy screwing with other people's heads."

"Did you feel this way before or after you slept with her?"

Brynjolf gave Lucille an unimpressed look, because he was fairly certain that amused look on her features meant that she was saying that because she _knew_ it would annoy him, not because she really wanted to know. He chose not to answer the question, and after a few moments she caught his gaze again, but this time she had a curious expression on her features.

"So I don't need to watch my bed around you?"

He gave her the most meaningful but without being patronising look he could manage. "I wouldn't try and get in your bed, lass."

She gave him an amused look and he distinctly felt as if he wasn't going to enjoy what she was about to say. "Too much effort?"

He only groaned a little bit. Really, he never should have had that damn conversation with her about nords and elves in the first place – she'd never let him forget it at this rate. Still, he figured her teasing him for saying it every now and then was much better than Tove trying to sabotage his entire life just because she seemed to think that him sleeping with her once meant that he was obliged to love her forever after or something.

"No," he answered, then gave her a pointed look. "It's more because I get the distinct feeling you'd just laugh at me if I did."

Ironically, she did laugh then, but he couldn't bring himself to get too angry about it. "And here I was thinking you were an honourable man."

He gave her a sly but pointed look. "I lost my honour a long time ago."

She held his gaze momentarily, then glanced away. "I never had any to begin with."

His brow knitted together as he considered what she said, and he had a strong feeling that she wasn't particularly referring to honour in her relationships with other people, as he had been referring to himself. But then, if she'd been a thief since she was a girl then she might consider herself to never have had any honour anyway, even if you were only stealing so you could survive. Besides, she didn't really seem like the kind of person who slept around. In fact, he outright could not imagine her doing that at _all, _it was kind of weird to think about.

He looked up at her then and saw that the gash had at least stopped bleeding. "You're going to have a scar," he offered almost sympathetically.

She shrugged. It didn't seem to really bother her, and from what parts of her skin he'd seen up until then, she had quite a few anyway as it was. He figured she didn't really care what one more scar was when her body was already marred by them.

"Just like yours, I guess?"

It took him a few seconds to realise what she meant, and he raised a hand self consciously to the faint scar that ran down his own right cheek. He'd had it for ages, sometimes he even forgot it was there.

"How did you get it?" she asked.

His eyes narrowed in disdain at the memory. "I got in a fight with some older lads when I was a boy." He sighed. "They said my ma had been careless and stupid, and she obviously didn't love me if she'd gone and gotten herself killed."

"If she died giving birth to you then that doesn't really make much sense," Lucille replied. She was completely right of course, but at the time he'd been so furious about what they'd said that he hadn't really stopped to consider if it was total bullshit and they were just trying to wind him up.

Regardless, Brynjolf laughed a little bitterly and shook his head. "My pa shouted at me for hours when he found out I'd been beaten up."

Lucille frowned. "Not at the other boys?"

"Nay, though I'm certain he would have yelled at them too if he figured out who they were." He shrugged. "I think my pa was just angry I got hurt."

Lucille nodded but didn't reply, and he reasoned she probably thought that was the most likely explanation as well.


	7. Mouse Trap

As always thank you to anyone who has taken the time to review, read, follow, favourite, etc this story! I appreciate it and hope you enjoy it!

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**Chapter Seven**

**Mouse Trap**

"Bryn, Bryn," she purred at him, but he refused to be persuaded by her voice. "Why don't you talk to me any more?"

"No," Brynjolf replied quite coldly. "I do believe we have had this conversation, and you will find my answer has nay changed from what it was before. And you do not have the right to call me Bryn any longer, _girl_."

He was serious when he referred to someone as girl. Serious in that he did not want anything to do with them, and that they were well and truly beneath him – that there was things he could scrape off his boot that he would respect more.

Tove pouted at him. She had her arms crossed over her chest in such a way that it pushed her breasts up to ridiculous volumes that, had Brynjolf not thoroughly despised the woman, he would have found it rather difficult to resist her. But his hatred of her easily superseded his more primal urges. Still, it didn't stop her trying, and a few of the newer male guild members in the flagon were swallowing quite thickly. Poor sods probably didn't realise that Tove was the closest mortal thing to a daedra that existed – and by daedra, he meant the thoroughly evil sorts, the kind that would mate with you and then eat you afterwards for fun.

He saw her hand make an attempt to stroke his cheek, but swatted it away before it got the chance. "You're so cold now," she purred, then smirked at him. "You weren't cold on that winters night three years ago..."

"Yes, well," he started in a drawl, "there was a fireplace in the room, I suspect that might have had something to do with it."

She sighed and took a step closer. He felt the cold wall of the flagon against his back and realised glumly that he was rather pinned against it. Tove had a habit of dancing between two different persona around him. One week she was trying to seduce him and get into his pants, the next she was trying to make sure no woman in Tamriel ever got into them again (unless it was her, he figured.) Which of course was never going to happen, because he'd sooner try and get in bed with an elk than that harpy.

"We could start over," she continued and let her fingers creep up his chest. "Just you and me-"

He grabbed her hand, decided he'd had enough, and span her until he had her pinned against the wall underneath _him_ instead. In any other situation he would only force a woman into such a position if he was _really_ intent on screwing her, but in this case, it was far from it. It didn't stop Tove from giggling at him and he realised she was holding something in her free hand.

His eyes widened in horror as he saw the key dangling from her finger. He hadn't even realised she'd taken it from the pocket on his waist. Sneaky bitch. She'd dropped it down into her cleavage before he could try and stop her and gave him the most seductive come-hither look she could manage. It did stir something inside him, but it paled in comparison to his overwhelming desire to throttle her.

"Oh, silly me!" she exclaimed. He gave her a look of sheer disbelief and loathing. "Was that special to you?"

"Give it back," he snarled.

She grinned at him. "Why don't you come get it?"

"I have a better idea," he replied with a hint of sarcasm and reached for one of his daggers. "Why don't you give me the key before I break you so badly that not even your _father_ will be able to save you?"

The blade was pressed against her neck in seconds and he pushed it just hard enough that a single drop of blood rolled down her skin. It was common knowledge that Tove's father was an incredibly wealthy, influential and corrupt man. He spoilt her senseless and half the reason anybody even tolerated her was because having her father on their side was extremely more useful than having him against them. And Tove's father could make their life _very_ unpleasant if he wanted to.

"You wouldn't dare," she hissed.

He gave her a dark look that betrayed very much the desire he'd get from enacting his words. "I would bleed you until there isn't a drop of blood left in your worthless body."

She actually looked a little bit worried then. Perhaps she realised that even her father's influence wouldn't stop him if she pushed him too far and that their allegiance with the Dark Brotherhood meant that if they truly needed it, they could have her father dispatched and lying in a pool of his own blood in days. Regardless, she shoved the key back into his hands and sauntered off, leaving Brynjolf scowling at her before pocketing it.

It was the copy of Gallus' key that safely opened the door to his private quarters without triggering the trap. Karliah had the other copy, and Gallus had the original.

Brynjolf turned away and glanced around the flagon, realising with some embarrassment that a lot of people were watching him. The younger or newer men in the guild were giving him a look akin to, _how could you possibly be so daft as to reject her?, _whereas Stig was giving him an enthusiastic two thumbs up (Stig hated Tove and often referred to her as the guild's resident spoiled princess, which was actually quite an accurate name) and Lucille...

He felt strange as he observed the bosmer's expression. Obviously she'd witnessed what had happened, yet she just looked curiously at him, for what reason however, he couldn't guess. But he felt a bit annoyed that Tove had forced him to act like that in front of the others, and he wasn't entirely sure why that was.

Frustrated, he stalked off in search of Fluffy. He _really_ needed to hit something.

o0o

"I don't particularly have anything against nature," Brynjolf started as he ducked past a branch that seemed rather intent on beheading him, "but I draw the line at tramping through the woods with trees that are attempting to kill me."

"Do tell how you know that a tree is trying to kill you," Frederick replied sarcastically as he walked behind him. "Because I would surely _love_ to know."

A particularly large branch flung at him and Brynjolf dodged it as best he could. Perhaps too well, if Frederick was concerned, because it hit him in the face instead of the redhead. Maybe one of these days he should apologise for the amount of times Frederick got hit by something instead of him – it was happening quite a lot lately.

Brynjolf glanced over his shoulder at the other nord man. "That is how I deduce it," he stated.

Frederick pushed the attacking branch out of the way and gave him an unimpressed look. "That branch only hit me because _she_ moved it in the first place."

He pointed at Lucille, who was in front of them and leading them through this godforsaken forest. In truth, it made sense to have her lead considering she had rather more experience walking through the wilderness than either of them did. On the downside, she was quite good at dodging tree branches, and in this particularly thick bit of forest, that meant that they often got hit by those same branches when they swung back after her. And Brynjolf, being quite quick on his feet, dodged said branches which ended up usually hitting Frederick who was less quick on his feet.

In truth, Frederick was no less skilled in battle than Brynjolf was – but the other nord man had dabbled in magic in the past whereas the redhead had focused entirely on melee combat, and that intense focus on trying not to get stabbed or pummelled by an axe ironically also translated quite well into dodging evil trees. Using magic didn't translate so well.

Lucille, however, didn't catch on to their conversation (or decided not too, maybe she was offended by their anti-nature comments, Brynjolf wasn't sure) and after a few moments they came out into a clearing. There was a cave up ahead and the soft tinkling noise of running water somewhere, though he couldn't see where. They were here because Mercer had came up to him this morning and drawled something about a lead on a rare item in a cave north of Riften that he'd heard about. And naturally, Mercer being far too important for such trivial tasks himself, had stated that Brynjolf should investigate it for him.

And by Brynjolf, he meant Brynjolf and Lucille. And Frederick. Just in case the redhead, oh, ran headfirst into a crypt full of draugr or something by accident and needed help. Really, he wasn't sure whether to be offended or not at having to take those two along with him because Mercer thought he was incompetent – because the second in charge certainly didn't suggest he take them with him because he was concerned for his safety. That was not something Mercer did.

Still, he didn't mind so much. Brynjolf had worked with Frederick many times before, they were almost sort of partners on jobs, and he was a pleasant enough man most of the time – if a bit sarcastic and somewhat depressing. And Lucille had proved useful in actually getting them through the stupid wilderness and to the cave, so he figured it wasn't so bad all in all.

Brynjolf cleared his throat to grab his companions attention. "Thank you for that pleasant tromp through the forest, lass," he said to Lucille. She shook her head with a little laugh at his words. "However, I think it would best if I lead from here."

The elf shrugged but didn't complain and fell into line behind him with Frederick. As the redhead advanced towards the cave, he heard the other nord man mutter something to her and rolled his eyes.

"Better this way," Frederick muttered to Lucille. "Now he won't get distracted because there's a woman in front of him."

He heard Lucille laugh. "And you are so different?"

"Yes," Frederick replied a little too smoothly. "I have class and values, _he_ doesn't."

The elf hesitated then, and Brynjolf realised he was somewhat irritated with the other nord man for what he was saying. It was a bit hypocritical of him, Frederick had really told no lies and his reputation did precede him when it came to matters of the more intimate nature. But yet it still annoyed him, as if he didn't really want to be thought of like that any more. Sometimes he felt as if every encounter he had with a woman just went in a blur and left him wondering what the hell he was doing with his life afterwards. Truly, he decided then, he needed to start making some changes.

"I take pride," Frederick continued as they entered the cave, "in the fact that I do _not_ hang around the local tavern like some lecherous fool every night."

Brynjolf could picture Lucille giving the other nord man that amused look she gave him too often and she laughed, but it sounded a bit awkward. Regardless, the redhead shot a look over his shoulder at Frederick as his foot came down on a stone tile in the cave. He didn't acknowledge the 'click' sound that came with his foot hitting the tile.

"As much as this conversation is awfully amusing-" he cut himself off at the peculiar feeling of a bolt striking at his neck. Confused, he raised a hand to pull it out, only to realise that his hand seemed to be quite blurry... and that there were five of them. He figured out quite quickly that he didn't feel right and that the room wasn't in fact swaying, but that he was.

He fell to the ground hard, only to feel another bolt pierce his leathers around his abdomen and the world become so blurry that the only thing he could make out was Frederick and Lucille coloured blobs shouting and running towards him.

He vaguely heard something that sounded like _I thought Mercer said this place was abandoned_ from Frederick, and decided that he quite agreed with the anger in his voice.


	8. Fate Sealed

Just a little note, I like to imagine Brynjolf being rather arrogant and just generally a smartass when he was younger and then he only grows up a bit when Gallus dies and such!

Again thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read or comment or follow/fave/etc this story! I hope you are liking it!

* * *

**Chapter Eight **

**Fate Sealed **

Whatever happened after he lost coherent thought he couldn't even begin to speculate at. All he could remember was somebody tugging at him, quite a bit of shouting and eventually somebody pushing him until he was leant up against something cold and flat. After that, he sort of drifted between a half consciousness where he could make out a fuzzy shape fussing over him and periods of total blackout.

He saw the fuzzy shape (who was probably a person) over him at some point and something that felt like hands grabbing at his leathers. Had he been slightly more coherent he might have been unnerved to think that somebody's hands were digging under his clothes – and even in his dazed mind he had a difficult time deciding whether it felt as if the person was searching him for valuables, trying to rip a bolt out of his stomach, or get him into bed.

Then there was a period of nothing where he could hear somebody sounding rather frustrated and angry. Finally, his eyes opened lazily and he thought he could see somebody advancing on him. Whatever had afflicted him was wearing off a little bit now, because he could distinctly make out that it was in fact a person walking towards him, and they had something in their hand which looked like a knife, which made him quite worried.

He tried to get up and mumbled something incoherent, but it just made him more dazed and the next thing he knew was that there was bottle being pressed to his lips, cool liquid flowing down his throat and the unpleasant feeling of choking. The choking, he figured, was due to the fact that somebody was trying to force him to drink and half of the liquid had gone down the wrong way.

Still, whatever it was that he'd been forced to drink seemed to have cleared his head up a bit, and he had enough control over his body to splutter and cough. When he opened his eyes, he could see clearly again and, aside from the fact his head was throbbing something awful, he didn't feel so bad all in all.

Brynjolf blinked a couple of times then glanced up. Lucille was kneeling beside him with a bottle in her hand and a frown on her face. He shut his eyes once more as the sun seemed intent on trying to blind him – he guessed he was feeling a bit photophobic because of whatever had afflicted him. Then, after a few more seconds, he gingerly opened one eye, and then carefully the other one as well.

He managed to croak out a, "what the bleeding heck happened?" but he sounded a bit hoarse.

"You set off a trap in the cave and were hit by poisoned bolts," Lucille replied and forced him to take another sip of the potion in her hand.

He groaned perhaps a little bit too dramatically. "Aye, that's grand. Frederick will never let me live this down." She shrugged and gave a little half smile. "Speaking of which, where has that tosser gone off too?"

"That tosser," she replied with a pointed look, "has gone back into the forest to get some more thistle branches, the same ones that are in this potion that just cured you."

"Oh." He felt a bit awkward now and scratched at the back of his neck. "I, ah... I see."

She shook her head and rolled her eyes but he didn't notice for his mind decided to concentrate on something else he'd noticed. "You know a lot about alchemy do you, eh?"

He was, of course, presuming it was her that had made the potion. But he knew Frederick was hopeless at alchemy (there was an incident a few years ago with an explosion in the Cistern) so it was reasonable to assume she'd done it instead.

"You can learn a lot about making potions if you've spent a good deal of time living off the land," she replied and she seemed to consider whether to force him to drink any more of the potion or not.

"It... it's useful." She glanced down at the bottle in her hand, then back at him. "You should finish this off later, I don't know how much of the poison got into you and it won't do you any harm drinking too much of the antidote anyway."

"Might do my tastebuds harm," he mutter mostly to himself, because in fact it was quite a foul tasting concoction with little prickly thistle bits in it and was it not making him feel so much better he wouldn't particularly be inclined to consume it again voluntarily. There was a feeling not unlike Lucille clapping him over the back of the head and he shot her an annoyed look. She smiled at him and he scowled, but he wasn't committed to it and his lips tugged into a grin in seconds.

"By the way," he started after a few moments, "I would be truly interested to know what you have done to my leathers."

He spoke of the fact that up until that point he had been rather cold, and the reason for him being rather cold was because somebody had removed his leather vest. He wasn't particularly annoyed that it'd been removed (he guessed it was Lucille, but it could have been Frederick for all he knew, or maybe a passing deer with opposable thumbs), because it would have been rather difficult to remove the bolts that had pierced him without taking off his leather vest too. But still, he'd sort of like it back – and to see what the damage was and to conclude if he'd chance Stig berating him if it needed repairing.

Lucille took a step away and grabbed something from behind a rock nearby, then came back and gave him his leather vest. He realised then that he wasn't actually in the cave any more but rather outside it. Frederick had probably dragged him out of harms way, because Lucille was definitely too slight to do so herself.

"I took it off because the bolts were still leeching poison into you," she said, then blushed ever so slightly. "Uh, I figured you wouldn't mind."

"Aye," he replied and didn't particularly notice the fact she was looking somewhat embarrassed.

Perhaps she was only now catching onto the fact that he was half naked and making a purposeful effort to not look at him. He couldn't blame her – he was quite attractive, and he had the loveliest dusting of red hair on his chest. Not that he was arrogant, of course.

"Though usually when a woman tries to take off my armour it's because she's trying to get in bed with me," he continued offhandedly and then glanced up at her, "not because she's trying to save my life."

There was an awkward moment in which Brynjolf finally caught on to the fact of how actually awkward the moment really was, and the tips of Lucille's ears turned red, before she coughed and the both of them looked away quite clumsily and with a great deal of embarrassment. Although why he was embarrassed he wasn't entirely certain of, because surely it wasn't because he was unaccustomed to suggestive encounters. Thankfully, the general awkwardness was saved by the arrival of Frederick.

"Ack, if you wanted some time alone you could have just said," he drawled as he joined them with some thistle branches in a gloved hand. "Divines know you're probably the only woman in Riften who he hasn't screwed."

Brynjolf gave the other nord man an entirely not pleased look but he didn't seem to care. Actually, he seemed to be enjoying this a little bit _too_ much, especially when Frederick added, "not surprising I suppose that even while recovering from being unconsciousness you're still trying to get into someone's pants."

"It's really not like that at all, you troll brained pillock," the redhead replied a little more angrily than he would have liked. "But I guess the fact that Lucille only half undressed me to get the poisoned bolts out of my chest was too logical for your delightfully small brain to piece together."

The elf in question was regarding them both with an wholly amused look and was glancing at the both of them every time they spoke. "My," she started mostly to herself, "if I didn't know better, I'd wonder if you two were married."

Brynjolf shot her a cold and somewhat disbelieving look. Frederick made a sniggering sort of noise and quickly became the recipient of the same disbelieving look from Brynjolf instead. He threw his hands somewhat melodramatically in the air then and sighed deeply.

"Just _once_," Byrnjolf started, "I want somebody to help me without taking the piss out of me afterwards."

o0o

The snow came early that year. It snowed in Riften every year in the winter, sometimes more than others, but regardless of how many times it snowed annually, people still seemed to get into a state of shock the first time it happened each season. And when the snow came earlier than normal, it was even worse and the entire population of the Rift seemed to run around as if their heads had been chopped off or the world was ending. Then, a day or two later they would pull themselves together and go about their normal business in the way one did when it snowed. Really, one of these years they should get over the chaos of the first snow – because it wasn't like it was unusual, after all.

Regardless, it started snowing maybe a week or two after the trapped cave incident. After they'd returned to Riften there had been much shouting and arguments between Gallus and Mercer. In fact, it had persisted for so many days that Brynjolf was beginning to suspect there was more to it than just him getting hurt (though the fact that Gallus was angry about that as well was touching.)

But the snow had come heavy this season, and very thick. The entire countryside was coated in white and in his personal opinion, Brynjolf quite preferred it when it snowed compared to the rest of the colder months. When it snowed everything seemed lighter and in some ways less cold, because while the temperature might be lower, you didn't get soaked in rain the moment you went outdoors – and being in cold weather dry made a big difference in comparison to semi-cold weather and drenched.

Either way, all in all he quite liked the snow. Well, he liked it for the first month or so – then he got sick of it and wished summer would hurry up, but that wasn't a particularly unique opinion amongst most nords in Skyrim.

This particular day he'd been trudging through the snow outside town with the intention of visiting one of the outlying farms that they often did business with (the ones that produced honey were of notable interest to them, due to their closely intertwined relationship with Black-Briar Meadery.) Regardless, it was on this particular day when he walked, hands stuffed in his pockets to keep them warm, that he saw something that was a bit peculiar.

Brynjolf stopped in his tracks and blinked a few times as he saw Lucille and Mercer in the distance. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but whatever they were discussing it seemed to be making Mercer angry. He recognised threats when he saw them, and Mercer was doing a lot of threatening. Though, Lucille seemed to hold her ground and didn't buckle under the other man – in fact, she was regarding him with an rather cold expression and her arms crossed over her chest. He couldn't blame her, Brynjolf wouldn't be too happy either with being spoken to in the way that Mercer was doing.

There was a few moments where Mercer waved a hand and presumably shouted at her, before he shoved her roughly. It happened in a split second and the next thing the redhead saw was Lucille retaliating and the flash of a knife that was pressed against the older man's neck in such a smooth movement that she undoubtedly had combat experience that extended beyond using a bow and arrow.

Mercer snarled at her, then said something and Lucille retreated after a brief moment of pause. And then it was over, and they were both stalking off in different directions, Mercer away from him and Lucille towards. Brynjolf ducked behind the stables, for he was still barely out of town, until she passed – and then something occurred to him.

He wasn't entirely sure what possessed him to bend down and scoop up some snow. He hadn't done this for years, not since he was a little boy. He'd played with the other kids around Riften in the snow every winter, some of the girls would make snow men or snow angels, but he'd mostly just go around trying to bludgeon other people to death with snow balls. It was fun, and one of the few pleasant memories he had of his childhood. He'd always come back home soaking wet and freezing, but it was worth it every time. And perhaps after having such an unpleasant encounter with Mercer, he reasoned Lucille could do with some cheering up too.

Brynjolf made a thick, dense ball of snow and considered for a few seconds. Then, screw it he figured, and he threw it at her. It landed right on her shoulder blade and she yelled, span around and seethed at him. Though, the seething didn't last long when she realised it was him who'd done it, and she just looked incredulous instead. He grinned at her, and perhaps it was enough distraction but she landed a snow ball right back at him. Owing to her good aim with a bow, it hit him in the cheek, slid down and he felt cold snow drip onto his neck. It made him gasp, and she laughed at him.

That meant war as far as he was concerned. The next few minutes were taken up merely by the both of them trying to hit each other with snow balls – she landed more successful ones than he did from afar, but he figured out quite quickly if he got closer to her she couldn't aim so well point blank, and he had the distinct advantage. One particular snow ball he didn't throw at all but moved until he was behind her, yanked back her cloak and stuffed it down her back.

She yelped and jumped on the spot, clawing at her clothing to try and get the freezing snow out, but to little avail. He laughed at her so much his chest hurt, and he was so distracted bent over trying to catch his breath that he didn't notice her step on an unsteady ledge of snow on the river bank and lose her balance.

The ledge crumbled under her weight and she fell into the lake with a splash. He jolted back to his senses. He hoped she could swim. Evidently she could, because she surfaced quickly with a shrill gasp (the water in Riften was close to freezing in winter, and some shallow bits it _did_ freeze) and he obliged reaching down to help her up. By the time she was back on solid ground, she was shivering so much he actually sobered up significantly and became serious.

"Lass, we should get you somewhere warm," he offered. Perhaps if she'd been a nord she would have been able to manage it, but even he would feel a little bit uncomfortable in her situation.

There was an shack nearby on the riverbank that he actually had grown up in with his father, but it had been abandoned for years when he became an orphan street urchin and spent his time trying to pilfer coins or food in Riften. But he'd returned to it from time to time now that he was an adult, mostly for sentimental reasons, and knew there was still a fireplace inside.

"Come on." He gestured a bit further down the lake where the shack stood, the roof covered in snow.

She shoved him away a little, but he could tell it was playful and not angry. He walked her to the shack, filching a log or two of firewood from the stables on the way and led her inside. There he stuffed the abandoned fireplace with wood, grabbed some leftover kindling that sat beside it (he'd come back a few times here before in previous winters when he wanted some time alone, and there was still some left) and started a fire. It took a while, but eventually it was flickering happily and the room was much warmer. Lucille was still shivering though (he could hear her teeth chattering so much he wondered if it were possible for her to break them.)

"You should take those wet clothes off," he suggested in the least, well, suggestive way he could manage. "They're not helping."

She shook her head. "I'm f-fine."

"Lass, if you're options are freezing to death or risking being partially naked around me, I know what I would chose." He gave her a level look. "And I assure you that I will be able to contain myself."

"O-of course n-not," she stammered between chattering teeth. "You don't go for elves, t-too much effort."

"I really wish I'd never said that," he muttered, annoyed with himself but also at her in that she wouldn't let him live it down. "But don't take that as a suggestion that I'm going to jump you the moment you show some skin."

"F-from what I hear, you'd jump any other woman in Riften." She tried to laugh when she spoke but it didn't sound very good because she was trying so hard to not freeze to death.

Brynjolf sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Then, he grabbed at her cloak.

"Look, at least take this off."

She flinched at first, but then allowed him to pull the soaking fabric off her, and he wrapped his own fur lined cloak over her shoulders. That helped a little at least, and after a few minutes she wasn't audibly shivering any longer. There was a moments silence then as they sat in front of the fire as if they were both too intent on watching the flickering of flames than actually converse with each other. After a few minutes, he spoke.

"Just for the record," he started, "I would go for an elf."

She cast him a sidelong look which he fleetingly returned, before they both turned away awkwardly. Then, she replied. "I hope you're not going to go to Valenwood and try to use that as a pick up line."

He stared at her, but she was laughing at him and somehow he didn't care. She smiled at him. "Because really, that was pretty shit."

He grinned at her and chuckled, before pushing her playfully in the shoulder and dropping the subject.

* * *

Also just another note! I like to keep chapters roughly the same length (give or take...) so that's why Brynjolf hasn't brought up what he saw with Lucille and Mercer - he IS going to bring it up, just in the next chapter otherwise this one would be too long I think...


	9. The Trouble That Winter Brought In

Thank you to anyone taking the time to read this and those who have left comments or follows, etc!

* * *

**Chapter 9**

**The Trouble That Winter Brought In**

The snow flakes fell in his hair and refused to budge. Had he been more interested in his appearance, he might have appreciated how they looked – for it was quite beautiful how they laid delicately on his locks and contrasted so brightly against the red of his hair. But he didn't appreciate it, he just found it frustrating because he knew better. He knew when it melted his hair would become unkempt and only marginally better than the drowned rat appearance he took on when it rained.

Brynjolf shivered a little. Even with a fur lined coat and woollen scarf around his neck he was still cold. Perhaps he would buy (or steal) some mittens because he could only assume the temperature was going to fall even lower when winter really kicked in. He'd never really used mittens before, they got in the way if you were trying to break into places so he never bothered. But he'd rather not get frostbite, either, so maybe it wasn't such a bad idea.

He glanced at Lucille as they walked through the snow back to Riften. She was sniffing with bright red cheeks and nose. Poor lass couldn't handle the cold as well as a nord could, but the flush on her features and the way she scrunched them up every time she tried to stop her nose running was kind of funny to watch.

"By the way," he started carefully as he considered what words to use, "did something happen with you and Mercer?"

He wasn't entirely sure how to broach the subject. His curiosity had been getting the better of him about what he'd seen earlier before the snow fight, and even a part of him was not so much curious but suspicious. Not that he wanted to accuse Lucille, per say, but Mercer had been making him twitchy for some time now and that confrontation didn't help. There was something odd going on with that old man, and he needed to know if it was for good or ill.

Lucille was giving him a careful look and he decided to add, "I saw you... speaking with him. Though I use that word lightly as threatening might be more accurate."

She looked away and fixed her eyes on the ground as they walked. "He was just having a go at me because I screwed up a job for him, I... might have reacted a bit over the top."

That she had only reacted a _bit_ over the top was quite an understatement, but he let that particular detail slide. "What job?"

"He wanted me to get some documents from one of the outlying farms but I slipped up."

His lips pulled into a faint ironic smile. "I presume it was one of the farms that produces honey?"

Her eyes flickered to him. They still unnerved him, he couldn't see anything in them because they were so black – like obsidian. "Yes."

"Well, lass, that would do it." When her features turned to confusion he figured he'd do the polite thing and enlighten her. "Black-Briar Meadery is as intertwined with the guild as we are with the Dark Brotherhood. Sometimes the farms that provide their honey need a bit of persuasion... and Mercer gets the pleasure of dealing with the Black-Briar's when things don't work out."

"Ah," was the reply he got from Lucille.

"Trust me when I say that speaking with the Black-Briar matriach holds a reasonable threat that a black sacrament will be performed when you've left." Brynjolf shrugged. "And Mercer is less forgiving than any other guildmember."

"Why does he deal with the Black-Briars and not Gallus?"

He laughed a little. "Because it takes somebody with nerves of steal to deal with Maven. That harpy can't be much older than me and she's already bludgeoned the rest of her family into submission." He sobered and his features became the slightest bit paler. "Or had them... taken care of, if you get my meaning."

They'd reached Riften and he held the gate open for her – his father had at least taught him _some_ manners. The guards didn't even look twice at them. He could possibly go around screaming he was in the Thieves Guild and not suffering any repercussions in Riften, though he wasn't about to try just in case. It did make his job a lot easier though when half the guards were too scared or bribed to bother trying to do their job properly.

"I didn't realise you had such a close relationship with the Dark Brotherhood," Lucille replied.

Brynjolf scowled as they walked through the streets. "I can assure you it is not something I am proud of. But..."

"But?" she prompted.

"But I'd rather have them on our side where we know where they are, rather than skulking around behind our backs."

"Fair enough."

Something caught his attention as they passed through the market and he dropped the conversation. It was towards the middle of the afternoon and the sun was starting to set, as it often did at this time in the winter (contrary to the summer when it seemed to _never_ bugger off.) But it wasn't the merchants trying to sell their wares that interested him.

There was a little girl standing in the corner of the market, she couldn't have been even seven or eight and her clothes were ragged and torn. He knew she was an orphan. When you'd grown up as one for the better part of your life, you knew how to recognise one. Maybe she was in that poor excuse of an orphanage in town, but that was as good as being on the streets in his opinion. He'd actually been in that hell-hole for a few months when his father first died, but got so sick of the matron (or witch as he'd called her) that he'd ran away. Permanently.

Sometimes he saw the orphanage matron in the streets and had to force himself not to laugh. The woman would always give him the safe huff and disgusted look. A large part of it was because he'd antagonised her relentlessly when he'd been at the orphanage (completely deserved, he thought), but there was probably a significant part of her annoyance devoted to his renowned promiscuity. The woman was a prude and sometimes he'd say something suggestive to her just to see the horror on her face.

Regardless, the little girl before him looked hungry and neglected. Brynjolf grabbed a winter apple from one of the distracted merchant's stall and crouched down beside her. She had grubby little hands and a suspicious, cautious look on her features of one who had stopped trusting adults a long time ago.

He held the apple out in his hand and she hesitated for a moment, her big eyes flickering down to the fruit longingly. Then hunger got the better of her and she grabbed it and took a big, messy bite out of it.

Brynjolf grinned at her as she gave him the smallest shy smile in return.

o0o

It was quite a pretty necklace, he decided. Too bad it would probably never reach it's owner again. He held it up to the light, pleased with how the rubies glinted as he sat with his chin in his palm at a table in the flagon. Stig was sweeping the floors (although why he bothered was beyond Brynjolf because it never made any difference) and sidled up beside him.

"Eh?" Stig peered at the amulet a little closer. "Talos' hairy arse! How did you get _that_?"

Brynjolf glanced up at him and gave him a cocky grin. "Have I piqued your interest, hmm?"

"Bloody daedra you have!" Stig grabbed the amulet and gave it a thorough examination with his mouth agape. "This is the Jarl's, she wears it round her neck every minute of the day!"

The older man returned the amulet and gave him a look somewhere between disbelief and approval. Brynjolf just shot him a look of arrogant satisfaction and twirled the necklace casually on a finger.

"Yes," he started, "it was quite wasted sitting around her ugly neck all the time."

Stig put one hand on his hip and narrowed his eyes at him. "There is no way I'm believing you stole that from her while she wore it, you aren't _that_ good."

Brynjolf scowled at him. "She took it off because the clasp broke, and gave it to one of her servants to get it fixed."

Stig's features slowly pulled into a grin as if he knew exactly where this was going. The redhead found himself mimicking the gesture without even realising it. He waved a hand a little dismissively and added, "it wasn't particularly difficult to relinquish it from the servant while she was naked and exhausted on a bed in front of me."

"You filthy dog!" Stig's grin only widened and he gave Brynjolf a big, hearty pat on the back, which almost sent him head first into the table from the force of it. "I love it!"

At that moment Gallus walked into the flagon and they both glanced up. He looked like he was ready for travel and Brynjolf frowned a little. Stig dropped the conversation and resumed sweeping the floors as the Imperial approached.

"Are you leaving?" Brynjolf asked as he slipped the necklace into a pocket, he'd try and pawn it later.

"Just for a week or so with Mercer," the other man replied, but there was a frown gracing his usually handsome features. He almost looked delicate sometimes in comparison with the other people in the guild, especially the nords, like he didn't really belong in this trade at all.

The redhead cocked his head. "Trouble?"

"I'm hoping to stop it before it becomes trouble."

There was a moment of silence and Brynjolf narrowed his eyes at the other man in slight suspicion. "Why do I get the feeling you're never telling me the whole story?"

Gallus' features faintly mirrored guilt. "There's a lot I haven't told you," he replied a little softer than the redhead had expected. "And there's probably a lot you deserve to know."

The Imperial reached out and let his hand curl around Brynjolf's cheek. His features scrunched up a little at being coddled, he _hated_ it.

"But not now," Gallus added as he stepped back. "It wouldn't be fair to make you a target."

Brynjolf scowled as the other man walked away, and half shouted after him. "Why do you always have to be so annoyingly _vague_?"

Gallus turned around and saluted him with a grin, to which he only received an eye roll from the redhead in return. And then he was gone, and there was just Brynjolf and Stig in the flagon in a somewhat awkward silence. Stig looked as if he wasn't entirely sure if he should say something or not, so just continued attempting to clean the floor. Brynjolf, however, leant back in his chair until he was leaning against a pillar and balancing on the two back chair legs.

He closed his eyes and had started drifting off into a pleasant little snooze when he heard more commotion. He decided against opening his eyes and just listened instead with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Got your armour done at last, elf," Stig said before his tone turned slightly more accusing. "Wouldn't have taken so long if I didn't have to try and get a certain idiot's armour fixed because he likes to get shot at."

Brynjolf highly suspected that had been directed at him, but he refused to give Stig the pleasure of a reaction. So he forced his features to remain annoyingly oblivious and very near grinned when the older man huffed loudly.

"Thank you," Lucille replied politely and there was a noise that sounded like a chair being pulled out from a table and her presumably sitting in it.

There was a clink of glass and the sound of liquid being poured, probably from one of the jugs of water that often got left on the tables because Stig was too lazy to put it away. Brynjolf never drank the water he found in the flagon though, because it carried the reasonable threat of getting cholera. But he guessed Lucille didn't need to worry so much, being naturally hardy against diseases as bosmer were and all.

There was once again a moment of silence, before Stig interrupted it again. Quite loudly, too.

"Hah! Look what's come through the Ratway today!"

Brynjolf actually opened one eye at that comment. What Stig was speaking of was a newcomer that had joined them, though newcomer wasn't really the best word for it. The man who'd arrived wasn't exactly new to the guild, he just wasn't really officially part of it. The breton who had arrived had a habit of drifting in every few months or so, doing an odd job for them, and then leaving when he was done. Nobody really seemed bothered by it, partly because he was quite good at what he did and most people were confident he wouldn't sell them out. Except maybe Mercer, but _he_ probably wouldn't even trust bunny rabbits.

"Finally stumbled back to us, eh, Cynric?"

There was the unpleasant noise of glass smashing and Brynjolf jolted upright out of reflex. Lucille's hand was bloody but she didn't really seem that phased by it, because she was staring so intently at Cynric, and he her, that Brynjolf highly suspected there was an elaborate silent conversation transpiring between the both of them.

"Be careful!" Stig shouted. "You owe me another glass, elf!"

Lucille didn't appear to really listen to him and instead rose to her feet, grasping her new armour and murmured a rather tense, "would you excuse me," and stalked towards Cynric.

The look she gave the breton was so volatile it made Brynjolf feel rather uncomfortable, and he wasn't even on the receiving end of it. Lucille grabbed Cynric's arm and whispered something to him. The breton's features darkened and he sneered at her, but left with her regardless as she made for the cistern.

Brynjolf blinked in confusion, and judging by the expression on Stig's face, he figured he was equally confused. Then, Stig glanced at the redhead.

"I tell you," the older man started a little cautiously, "there's something not right about that elf."

"Give her a break, it's not easy being an elf in Skyrim," Brynjolf found himself saying, though he was still frowning in thought and didn't really feel overly committed to what he was saying.

"Well, there's a perfectly good Valenwood open to her-" Stig stopped as he received a hard look from the redhead. Then the older man's features flickered to an ironic but somewhat disbelieving expression. "Oh god's, you're sweet on her," Stig said flatly. "You idiot."

"Bah." Brynjolf scoffed and glanced away in perhaps the way an indignant child would. "I am not."

"_Sure_," Stig replied sarcastically. "Mark my words, you'll be having fucking mutant half elf babies before you know it."

Brynjolf decided to ignore that comment and returned to closing his eyes and pretending the other man didn't exist. Unfortunately a certain undead cat, who may or may not have been biding her time up until that point, decided on that opportunity to leap up onto him at such a force and velocity that he lost his balance and crashed to the floor.

He cursed and groaned, finding himself staring into Fluffy's big creepy looking eyes. The cat meowed at him as if to state she was quite pleased with herself. Brynjolf, however, just fumed at her, until his features turned to horror.

"Oh no, no no no-" he cried, but she'd wretched a skeever head up onto his chest before he could hope to stop her.


	10. Vex

Thank you again so much to anyone reading this and especially those who have left reviews! Especially thank you to anon lady73 for your reviews, as I can't respond to reviews through pm's if they are anon, so thank you here instead!

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**Chapter Ten**

**Vex **

He was walking the cistern a few days later on the way to Riften's topside when he first noticed them arguing. In fact, it was only chance that he noticed it at all because he'd been thoroughly in his own thoughts and paying rather little attention to anything going him around him at all. A pretty poor thing for a thief to be doing, but he wasn't in the mindset for pickpocketing at that particular moment and, being too consumed pondering the greater meanings of the universe. And by that, it meant that he was pondering what the best way to pawn off the Jarl's amulet was – as in, the way that got him the most money. Brynjolf had toyed with the idea of ransoming it back to the Jarl, but that was risky. He had a contact in Whiterun however who he suspected would be very interested in the amulet.

Regardless, he'd only noticed the heated conversation between Lucille and Cynric because he almost started walking down a wrong hallway that led off the cistern. In fact he often did this, the cistern was circular with lots of passages coming off it and it still confused him if he wasn't paying attention. As soon as he'd heard them talking, however, he'd paused. Both because he realised he'd taken the wrong corridor, and because he was curious.

"What are you even doing here?" Cynric's voice floated over to him.

Brynjolf couldn't see them and as he glanced around he realised this particular passageway lead to the training room and armoury, so he figured they were in there. There was no one else around that he could see.

"I could say the same about you," Lucille replied. She sounded guarded and perhaps with the slightest hint of barely suppressed anger. It didn't sound normal for her given her usual passive temperament.

"I thought I'd never see you again!" Cynric growled. Brynjolf had a hard time deciding if it sounded threatening in a despising or possessive sort of way. "And now you turn up here?"

"Don't even-" Lucille started.

"What do expect me to think?!" There was a pause. "You knew I had ties with the Thieves Guild. I _know_ you're here for me."

"Don't flatter yourself," she spat in response. "After everything you put me through-"

"_I_ put you through?" There was a flash of steel and Brynjolf contemplated intervening, had he not suspected he might get stabbed by accident. Interrupting two armed people didn't always end well, and he didn't like getting a blade to the gut if he could avoid it. "You conniving little bitch! You were the one who wanted me-"

"Because somehow I didn't realise what a pathetic excuse for a man you are." There was the sound that Brynjolf suspected was somebody pushed the other roughly away. Who was pushing who, however, he couldn't guess. "Believe me when I say I would have been _happy_ to never see you again."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe that," Cynric replied dryly.

There was a pause, and then Lucille spoke so darkly that it made a little cold shiver run up the redheads spine. "Stay away from me, or I'll gut you where you stand."

And the conversation was over and he heard them coming towards him. Keenly aware that it wouldn't be so good to be caught eavesdropping, Brynjolf quickly walked away with his brow furrowed and chewing his lip in thought.

o0o

He hadn't seen the little girl from the market in several days. In fact, he hadn't really intended on seeing her ever again. But then later that morning when he emerged from the graveyard and made his way into town he felt the most peculiar touch of a tiny hand grasping his. Brynjolf blinked and looked down.

The girl was trotting along beside him, he realised now she was an imperial, straining to hold his hand because he was so much taller than her. He smiled just the tiniest bit and stopped. She stopped too. When he crouched down to be at her level she gave him a big toothy grin.

"They say your name is Brynjolf," she said with such big and bright eyes he couldn't help but sigh a little. What he'd give to have had a little sister like that, or even a daughter.

"Oh? And who is they?"

Her features became a mixture of cheeky and secretive. "Nobody. Everybody. Just the stuff I hear on the wind."

Hmm. He hadn't considered this girl might be a budding thief before. Maybe he should start considering it now. After all, he wasn't much older than her when he first started out.

"They say you're a thief," she continued. He hushed her a little to discourage her from saying the word too loudly. Even if she might have potential, she was still a kid and lacked the tact or wisdom of an adult.

"They say a lot of things," he replied with a little grin.

She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a determined look. "I _know_ you're a thief."

He raised an eyebrow at her but try as he might, he couldn't stop the amusement on his face. She looked ridiculous trying to be tough and perhaps just the littlest bit cute. "Aye?"

"Teach me to be a thief!" She grabbed his arm and gave him a pleading look with those big innocent eyes. Manipulative little thing. He loved it, she had the potential to be brilliant.

"Well, I don't know..." he started slowly and gave her a mock serious look. "You'd have to be very brave-"

"I've been _so_ brave since mother died," she interrupted.

He winced a little. But perhaps he could teach her a couple of things to make her life easier. He pointed at the market. "I'll show you how to swipe some food from the merchants when they aren't looking," he told her. "But that's it."

She seemed to consider his proposal for a few moments, but then nodded. He stood up and she grabbed his hand again. He decided against pushing her away, and if any in the guild gave him shit for it he could make them regret it anyway. Something prickled on the back of his neck as he walked her towards the market and he felt uncomfortable, rather like he felt when was being watched. And his instincts were rarely wrong.

Brynjolf glanced over his shoulder. There was nothing there, not that he could see at least. Except... he frowned. One of branches on a tree that hung close to the wall of the temple was shaking, and too strongly for it to be from the wind. He narrowed his eyes and tried to get a better look, but the girl tugged him and grabbed his attention.

"You didn't even ask my name," she stated flatly.

"Hmm?" Brynjolf was still a bit distracted, but then let his suspicions slide and focused on her. "So, what is it then?"

She smiled at him. "Vex."

o0o

The problem with Cynric, Brynjolf decided, was that he didn't know what was good for his continuing health. Namely, he didn't quite understand that if he kept pissing off Lucille then possibly bad things might happen. People were starting to notice, and given that Cynric wasn't officially affiliated with the guild and Lucille was, it was making people uneasy. It was only Cynric's luck that both Gallus and Mercer were away which made most people hesitant to enact any justice on their own without the guildmaster or his second in commands approval.

It even spilled over into public conversations too. At first, Cynric had only argued with Lucille in somewhat privacy (although everybody ended up knowing what happened regardless) but after a few days he'd started attacking her in front of other guildmembers too. It was over a week now that he'd turned up and tensions were running high amongst almost everyone because of it.

This particular day Brynjolf had been sitting at the bar talking with Frederick and Stig (or more watching Stig berate Frederick for refusing to eat any of his food, which Frederick somewhat aptly described as tasting like 'something you managed to squeeze out of your ass, mixed in with the distinguishing taste of rotting fish.') It had been a rather amusing conversation, but it had faded when Cynric and Lucille's voice drifted over. Judging by the way their footsteps were becoming louder, Brynjolf reasoned they were walking in their direction from the cistern.

"Don't lie to me," Cynric spat.

"I'm not lying about anything," Lucille replied through what sounded like gritted teeth. "I didn't come here looking for you."

"Bullshit!" They emerged from the cistern and Cynric stopped in his tracks, staring her down. He wasn't as tall as a nord, but he still managed to seem intimidating compared to her because she was so slight and short. "You could never keep your hands off-"

"Shut your worthless mouth," Lucille interrupted and crossed her hands over her chest.

"Someone ought to break those two up," Stig murmured to Brynjolf and Frederick as quietly as he could.

Frederick gave the redhead a faux innocent look. "You're the one who's sweet on her, go play prince charming."

Brynjolf shot Stig such a furious look that the only thing the bartender could do was give him a big, outrageous grin. He was stopped from throttling the other man by the sound of Cynric backhanding Lucille across her cheek. The silence that followed felt like it could have lasted for hours. It was enough for Brynjolf. He'd deal with whatever shit his 'friends' tried to lay on him afterwards, but he'd not put up with this prick antagonising, and far less striking, a fellow guildmember any longer – regardless of who it was.

He pushed himself off his seat, eyes narrowed in anger and stalked over to Lucille and Cynric. He didn't realise he was puffing himself up to look more intimidating, perhaps it came naturally – when he put in the effort he could actually look particularly menacing. Even more so when Cynric was a breton, the redhead would tower over him with every inch of his tall, sturdy nord body if he had to.

He caught Cynric's attention with two words, slipped from his mouth with such venom that the other man actually paled a little bit.

"Ey, _boy_."

Cynric hesitated and glanced at him. It was all the distraction Brynjolf needed, and he'd shoved him against the wall of the flagon roughly in seconds. Cynric, however, just cast him an extremely annoyed look.

"You aren't a member of this guild," the redhead continued, "so believe me when I say that you nay want to piss me off, if you don't fancy the idea of lying in a ditch."

"I haven't done _anything_ to you," Cynric spat.

"Not directly." Brynjolf gave him a look so dark the other man actually quivered a little momentarily. "But you'd be wise to leave any guildmember well alone while you're walking our halls – and far less attack them at every turn."

"Attack?" His voice was incredulous, then it dawned on him and he made a noise of disgust. "You think I'm the one looking to start a fight? I don't want anything to do with her. She isn't worth the trouble."

Brynjolf hesitated. It wasn't exactly the answer he'd expected, but before he could accuse Cynric of lying (or at least acting to the contrary of what he was saying), the breton continued, and judging by the half pitying look on his features he'd cottoned on to something the redhead would quite rather he hadn't.

"You're a fool if you want to get close to her." His voice was a mixture of anger and warning. "She'll rip your heart out the first chance she gets. It's her favourite goddamn pastime."

Brynjolf frowned and he suspiciously felt the gaze of a very pissed off person searing into the back of his head. He cautioned a look over his shoulder and saw Lucille standing there, she looked like she could throttle Cynric with her bare hands, and then turn and finish him off too. He'd completely forgotten she was there. Cynric snarled and used the distraction to get away, but it wasn't a big priority in Brynjolf's mind, because the furious expression on Lucille's features was worrying him much more.

"We need to talk." The words left her mouth in barely more than a guttural snarl. "_Alone_."

* * *

Just wanna mention that I really like to imagine Brynjolf considering Vex his little sister because he calls her 'little vex' :)


	11. Chink in the Armour

Just want to mention that there will be one, maybe two more chapters of relationships/character development after this one... it's necessary for the serious plot to make sense (which will start in two or three chapters) :)

Also if Lucille's behaviour seems a bit weird at any point in all it's completely intentional and all will be explained once the plot starts to pick up soon(ish)

Thank you to those taking the time to read this, especially thank you to mia for your anon review!

(Also decided that this story will be separated into parts, meaning that the second part will be starting in a few chapters coinciding more or less with when the plot starts to develop more :))

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

**Chink in the Armour**

He allowed himself to be led into the Ratway, and it was only seconds after they were far enough away to be out of earshot from the flagon, that Lucille span around and shouted at him. He figured in her current state she'd gut any of the lowlife that lived in here if they dared disturb them.

"What in _Oblivion _do you think you're doing?"

"I don't think you're in much of a position to-"

"Oh, but I _am_." He'd never seen her this furious before. It didn't look natural, or suit her. "I don't need you defending me, so you can take that idea and shove it up your ass before I do it for you."

"Aye?" He snarled at her and crossed his arms. Two could play at this game. "Because you didn't seem to be doing a particularly good job of doing so yourself."

"And that gives you permission to take matters into your own hands?" She looked a mixture of shocked and pissed off now.

He gave her a level look. "I think you're over reacting perhaps just a little bit."

She hesitated and something flashed across her features that he couldn't make out, but she backed down after a few seconds and seemed less likely to kill him.

"Sorry." It sounded a bit forced when she spoke, but he figured it was better than her shouting at him. "I just... I don't need another idiot running around after my heels all the time thinking he can protect me as if I'm a fragile glass doll."

He briefly contemplated mentioning that if everybody in the guild had to go toe-to-toe with a pissed off bear, or say a daedra, she'd come out of it the worst out of everyone, but decided against it. She was good at getting around without being seen, but she'd be too vulnerable in a sword fight. Eventually, he relaxed his composure and settled on saying, "what do you mean?" instead.

"I worked with Cynric a few times and he helped himself into my bed," she replied. She didn't seem so much angry now as bitter. "But he only wanted me because he liked the idea of being able to dominant a little vulnerable elf."

He stared at her with what was probably a pretty dumb look on his features. If she was angry because she thought he was on some sort of sick power trip, then he could easily assure her that was quite untrue. He considered cautioning a response, but she beat him to it.

"I was stupid enough to think he loved me once upon a time," she half whispered. "But he was gone the moment I pressed him for something more."

She glanced away and he realized she seemed the slightest bit ashamed. Something twisted in him and he wasn't particularly sure what it was, or why exactly she was being so open with him either for that matter. Lucille cursed below her breath and twisted her fingers together as she continued.

"I... I wanted a family once." She sighed and shook her head. "But he didn't, and he made me realize I'd lost any chance of having a normal life a long time ago."

"I find it rather disappointing you let him make you believe that," Brynjolf replied flatly.

Lucille shrugged. "I think when you never really knew your parents the thing you want most is children yourself to recreate what you didn't have."

That was quite probably very true. Part of him had only joined the Thieves Guild for some connection to his father, and even then it wasn't enough. And a very, very large part of him had always toyed with the idea of having a family. But sometimes it felt like a stupid dream, something he'd certainly never achieve while he continued on his current path. He liked to wonder though, and maybe that was part of the reason he doted on the orphan children he found in Riften so much.

Eventually he muttered a somewhat absent, "you're probably onto something there."

She gazed up at him then and he fidgeted a little awkwardly. He hadn't realized she'd been standing so close to him up until that point. Hmm. His brow furrowed because he wasn't entirely certain why his fingers were touching hers either, because he certainly hadn't moved them at all. Perhaps the better thing would have been to jerk his hand away, but he didn't and he found it grasping hers. Then her head was becoming suspiciously closer to his, and her other hand somehow found it's way to his abdomen and this was all starting to go downhill rather fast. Until-

"Ahem." Stig was giving him the look. The look that spoke volumes that Brynjolf was going to get a _lot_ of shit about this later. "Gallus is back."

It took a few moments for that to really transmit properly to him. Stig narrowed his eyes at him and seemed as if he might have been considering whether he needed to take him to the temple or not. Brynjolf took a step towards the flagon to assure him he was quite fine. Lucille just sort of followed him hesitantly.

So they walked back to the flagon together, all three of them, in a rather painful silence. As they did, he peered at Lucille as inconspicuously as he could from the corner of his eye. She wrenched her gaze from his and blushed a little bit, which just left him more uncertain. Then, something occurred to him.

"Cynric made it out as if you were the one who hurt him," he pointed out.

Lucille's features tugged into the faintest of grins. "He's just trying to save face. I made sure he couldn't get laid for a year in Falkreath because every woman was convinced he was diseased." She bit her lip a little. "I think he decided to pin the blame on me in case I tried it again, thought it might help."

"Do you think it would help?" He was almost unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

Her lips curled into a dark, mischievous look. "Definitely not."

"You really scare the crap out of me sometimes," Stig muttered offhandedly in front of them.

o0o

"So Frederick tells me you're sweet on that new elf girl," Gallus started casually.

Brynjolf could not stop himself fuming and scowled. "I'll kill that tosser," he muttered to himself. "And Stig too."

Gallus chuckled. They were walking through Riften's streets a day after he'd returned from his trip. "So it's not true?" the imperial replied. "Pity. Everyone in the guild thinks it is."

The redhead groaned ever so slightly. How precisely had this gotten so completely out of control in such a short period of time? Gallus gave him a most curious look from the corner of his eye and added, "or is it true?"

Brynjolf shrugged somewhat helplessly. "I don't know."

"You don't know? How can you not know?"

"I just don't!" Brynjolf sighed and gave him an almost pleading look. "How did _you_ know when you loved Karliah?"

"Hmm." Gallus pondered for a few seconds, fingering his chin as if it would help him think better. "I knew when I looked at her and the only thing I wanted to do was kiss her until I felt faint from lack of breath." He paused and gave the redhead a somewhat serious look. "I knew when I realized I'd slit my throat if there was even the smallest chance it would save her life."

"I don't know how you could feel that way about Karliah," Brynjolf mumbled with a frown. "She's mean." Perhaps he sounded like a child when he spoke, but he didn't care.

"You just don't like her because she's the only person who consistently berates you for your loose morals," Gallus pointed out. "I think she knows you much better than you give her credit for."

The redhead cautioned a look at the other man. They were passing through the market now but he was so distracted by their conversation he didn't think to pilfer anything. Eventually Brynjolf decided on murmuring a hesitant, "in what way?" because he wasn't entirely sure it was something he wanted to know.

"She sees that you're just drifting day to day, year to year, never really knowing what exactly it is you're doing with your life."

That stung a little bit, mostly because it was rather true. Gallus shrugged, his fingers effortlessly grabbing a jeweled bracelet from a nearby market stall as they walked. Nobody even noticed when he stuffed it into a pocket.

"Personally, I think it'd do you a lot of good to find someone to steady you." Gallus paused and chuckled a little. "Of course, doesn't have to be Lucille, but she's probably the only woman in Riften who doesn't believe you're completely incapable of holding down a serious relationship."

"Only because she hasn't been here long enough to know better," Brynjolf pointed out.

"Yes, but more than that." When the redhead raised an eyebrow in questioning as Gallus continued. "Do you really see her as shallow, like Tove or Helga?"

He shuddered a little at both names. Tove for obvious reasons (as in that she was still a harpy bitch and probably always would be), and Helga because she scared the crap out of him. Helga was extremely insistent and so forward in her sexual needs that it even made Brynjolf uncomfortable. She'd tried to feel him up once in public and it'd damn near scared the life out of him. Literally in fact, he'd been so shocked he'd jumped, tripped and bashed his head against a brick wall so hard he'd been in the temple with a concussion for two days.

"No," he admitted eventually. In truth, if he considered what she'd said the previous day about Cynric then there was a lot about her which could appeal to him. Though whether that was only because he longed for a family or actually was interested in her as well he wasn't sure.

Brynjolf's brow furrowed as he thought. He'd be lying if he said she wasn't attractive, and maybe he wouldn't be that adverse if he somehow found himself in bed with her – even in spite of all the awkward things he'd said when he first met her, he could make it work if he tried. He let out a deep sigh and made a resolution to at least try and figure out how the heck he felt about her.

"This is where I leave you," Gallus said and snapped him from his thoughts.

"Aye?" Brynjolf glanced around. "You're going to the docks?" Gallus nodded. "What for? Half the water will be frozen over this time of year."

"I know." When the redhead raised an eyebrow at him, the imperial continued. "I'm teaching Karliah to iceskate."

"Oh. Well, eh, have fun."

Gallus nodded and marched off, before Brynjolf remembered something and called out for him. "Wait! You never mentioned what happened while you were away."

"Didn't I?" Gallus smiled in that infuriatingly pretending-to-be-innocent way that he so often did and Brynjolf rolled his eyes and stalked off.

o0o

"Ohhh, Brynnie-kins!" Frederick fluttered his eyelashes so outrageously and with such a preposterous look on his features that Brynjolf wondered if he might be sick. It was nearing a week since Gallus had returned, and Cynric had bitterly bid his farewell a few days ago. All in all, the mood was quite pleasant in the Thieves Guild – at least when Frederick and Stig weren't taking the piss out of Brynjolf.

"Yes, my elfy darling?" Stig replied with a painful imitation of the redheads accent. If he was to put up with them mocking him, then at least they could put the effort into actually sounding right, Brynjolf decided. Because at the moment Stig's fake accent sounded not too dissimilar to the noise a dying animal made, instead of the smooth sexy one the redhead liked to think he had.

Frederick giggled and waved a lady's fan in front of his face. Where he had even got a fan from Brynjolf didn't even want to know. "Te-he! Nothing, my darling, I just do so love to say your name!"

"I swear to the god's, I will kill you both if you don't shut up," the redhead growled. He'd been putting up with their idiotic teasing in the flagon for a good ten minutes or so. "And call me 'Brynnie-kins' once more-"

Frederick's lips curled into the most mischievous smile that the redhead knew he was going to dread the next few seconds very much. The other man held his gaze for a few painfully long seconds, then murmured tauntingly, "Brynnie-kins?"

"That's it!" Brynjolf lunged onto the other man and tackled him to the ground from his chair in seconds, pinning him quite successfully. He swiftly flew both his hands to Frederick's side, finding exactly the spots that he knew would make the other man beg for mercy.

And it worked so, so well. Frederick was quite possibly the most ticklish person to ever grace the country of Skyrim, and he was half screaming, half laughing so hard that tears were forming in his eyes.

"Oh god's!" Frederick pleaded and tried in vain to free himself. "Please stop!"

"There is not a person in this wretched country who could make me stop, you worthless excuse of a friend!" Brynjolf growled but try as he might he couldn't stop the smallest hint of amusement seep into his voice. Stig was laughing so hard he was banging his arm loudly on the barcounter, tears practically streaming down his cheeks.

"What in Tamriel _are_ you doing?" came a rather perplexed sounding voice.

Brynjolf froze. That was definitely Lucille. Both him and Frederick glanced up awkwardly at her, Stig was unable to do anything given that he was heaving for breath so hard from laughing too much.

"Uh," both Brynjolf and Frederick started, before the redhead got awkwardly off the other man and they both stood up.

"Really," Lucille mused to herself, "I don't think I will ever understand you nords."

She gave them one last amused look, and then walked off to presumably continue with whatever it was she'd been doing before being sidetracked in her path. Brynjolf simply stood there in a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief until Frederick murmured something in his ear.

"Stopped for her though, didn't you, eh?"

Brynjolf cuffed him around the back of the head in such a swift, comical motion that Stig very literally collapsed to the floor in laughter.


	12. Blindside

Thank you to those reading this! Next chapter will all the plot be starting!

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

**Blindside**

He hadn't seen her train before. In fact, he'd never really seen her fight ever. All he knew was that she carried a bow on her back which he made the grand deduction of meaning that she was an archer of at least some talent. But that was all he knew, and a part of him was curious to know how she'd actually fare in a fight at all. She was thin and perhaps a bit scrawny, so she couldn't rely on strength to get an edge – only speed and skill.

Brynjolf hadn't really intended either on watching her this afternoon, but it'd sort of happened by accident. And by accident, he meant that he'd actually been intending on training himself, but paused when he entered the room because he saw her already there. She'd drawn her bow and had an arrow poised. Had he not seen the slight rise and fall of her chest, he'd have wondered if she was a statue, her focus was that intense and her body barely twitched.

Lucille's gaze was focused on the bullseye of the target, eyes narrowed teeth gritted. Then, in a flash, she released the arrow and it shot across the room at the target. It hit the bullseye perfectly in the center, no small feat – but the amount of concentration and time it had taken her to perform the shot meant it would be utterly useless in a fast paced melee fight. Still, it'd probably be useful under the right circumstances.

"How are your melee skills?" he asked. She didn't even jump, her eyes simply flickered to his. Then she put her bow away and the tension in her body dissolved.

"Enough to get by," she replied.

Brynjolf grinned ever so slightly and took a step towards her, hands gliding to rest on the hilts of his daggers. "Maybe I should be the judge of that," he mused, nodding towards her. "You don't even have any real blades, just that small dagger."

Dagger was perhaps even too kind a word for the weapon that lay sheathed on her side. It was tiny, better for skinning animals than fighting. But it was quite a pretty dagger with a fine hilt. Lucille smiled ever so slightly and drew the weapon.

"Is that a challenge?"

He noticed now the dagger had a jagged edge which looked quite unpleasant and, if he hazard a guess, might be glass or elven in design. But no matter how dangerous it looked it still was inappropriate for a full on close range dogfight.

Brynjolf cocked his head at her and drew his own weapons. "If you want it to be, lass."

There was the slightest pause when they held each others gaze and he read only one word in her eyes: yes.

He was the first to attack (he probably shouldn't have been using his actual daggers, but he liked to think he had enough self restraint to not kill her, and hoped she had the same to not kill him in return.) She dodged him with the kind of agility and grace that only an elf would be able to manage. It wasn't that Brynjolf himself was clumsy or oafish like many nords, but she had the distinct racial advantage in terms of swiftness. Then again, he had the advantage in strength so it probably evened itself out in the end.

Still, he was having a difficult time trying to lock onto her. She wasn't attacking him at all, simply avoiding him at every turn. He got a few lucky swipes in here and there but they still all missed by the barest of margins and after a while it started to frustrate him. Perhaps this was the way she fought in melee, dodging her opponents until they lost their calm and went berserk, and subsequently also became vulnerable.

But he would not give her that pleasure, even if he was getting perhaps a little bit irritated. Again and again he slashed at her to no avail – though he did note happily that she was getting tired. Then again, so was he because he was panting ever so slightly.

Lucille dodged around the back of him and he span on the spot to try and follow her. He only just managed to wrench himself somewhat awkwardly out of the way when a small throwing knife traveled in his direction. Surprised and perhaps a little bit impressed, he paused entirely and stared at her.

"Do I even want to know where you were hiding that knife?"

A smirk tugged at her lips. "For you, I might consider showing."

He couldn't suppress the feeling that was meant in a not-so-innocent way. He narrowed his eyes and she raised an eyebrow in question.

"Reminds me of a question I've been trying to find the answer to," he replied.

"Hmm?" She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "What question?"

"That would be cheating." He lunged at her in her brief moment of distraction and there was the resonating sound of metal clashing with metal.

Now he knew things would be different. He'd forced her into a sword fight, and agile and crafty as she was, she couldn't slip out of this so easily once he'd engaged her in a duel. Still, with that little dagger she was holding and her own dexterity she was managing to evade his strikes quite effectively. But not forever and her luck ran out eventually. It was in the briefest of slip ups that he pounced, literally, tumbling her to the floor until she was pinned beneath him with one dagger against her neck and the other poised to ram into her abdomen.

Perhaps the fall had knocked the wind out of her, because she was breathing quite heavily. The shock wore off quickly however and then her lips curled into a smirk.

"Did your father never teach you not to hurt a woman?" she murmured.

His lips pulled into a cocky smile. "Not if she's trying to kill me."

She moved ever so slightly and he pressed a little firmer on his daggers, but she tsked him and his smile disappeared into a curious look as her hands found his chest. One she placed flat against his armour near his abdomen, and the other she let travel to his waist. When she glanced up at him with what he could only describe as a forced (but possibly quite effective) seductive look. He swallowed a little thicker than he'd intended.

She grinned at his reaction, but he was better than that. Perhaps he wouldn't deny that he was feeling the slightest bit hot and bothered, but he could reign himself in enough to still win this fight. He wasn't _that_ much of a slave to his base needs.

When Lucille's fingers started to worm under his belt and her head tilted up at his, he retaliated. Brynjolf took the briefest moment to collect himself, and then put more pressure on the dagger against her abdomen until she had to drawn in her stomach to stop herself from getting stabbed. Not that he would hurt her, but he needed her to realize that under other circumstances he might.

Brynjolf gave her a steady, determined look. "I'll concede that might work on a lot of men out there, lass." Her features flashed with irritation. "But not me."

"Are you sure?"

He wasn't entirely sure what she meant at first, but then he felt something touch his neck. He glanced down as much as he dared. Her hand wasn't on his chest any longer, in fact her fingers were pulled back as far as she could make them. But there was a thin, nasty looking blade extending from under her wrist that was touching his neck with just enough pressure to make him caution against making any sharp movements.

But he still had his dagger perfectly placed to gut her, and he wouldn't admit defeat so easily. He couldn't help an amused look crossing his features.

"Draw?" he offered.

She considered for a few moments before replying. "Draw."

The blade against his neck retracted smoothly into her glove and he got off her, sheathed his weapons and reached a hand out to her. She took it and he helped her up.

Lucille gave him a curious look as she put away her own dagger. "Did you find the answer to your question?"

He smirked. "I think so."

o0o

The shack was beautiful in the spring. It was abandoned enough that nature took back, and when the sun and warmth came out, flowers would poke up through the ground right next to the wooden walls, and the little brick path that had, many years ago, led up to the front door, became consumed in moss and grass. Bushes of juniper berries had sprouted up nearby a few years ago, and he'd gone down and picked them a couple of times before in previous years. He grabbed a couple off a bush and offered them to Lucille. She took one and ate it. It was maybe a bit sour because her lips pursed and she made a strange face. He'd leave the rest for a few more weeks to ripen up a bit more, he decided.

The snow had melted a few weeks ago and spring was well under way. Not much had happened over the last couple of months, he'd been sent away for a good deal of time on jobs and this was the first time he'd been back in Riften for a considerable period of time in a while. There had been rumours and whisperings going on, hints of tensions between Gallus, Mercer and Karliah, and also a good deal of people gossiping about Brynjolf and Lucille (as if they didn't have anything better to do.) None of the latter was true of course (especially the rumours Stig started that Lucille was carrying the redheads child which was completely outrageous), in fact he'd barely seen her in the last month or so he'd been so busy. But people always liked to gossip.

Still, perhaps he'd invited her to join him today because he'd been meaning to spend some time with her again. Regardless, Brynjolf led her to the small wooden pier that jutted out into the water beside the house and sat down. He pulled off his shoes and was dangling his feet in the water in minutes. Lucille just sat cross legged next to him.

"You grew up here, didn't you?" she said after a while. There was a frown on his features when he replied.

"Aye." He leant back on his hands and breathed deep the fresh air – what Riften lacked in winter, it made up for a hundred fold in spring and summer. A little butterfly was fluttering annoyingly over his head, but he felt too lazy and content to do anything about it. After a few seconds, it landed on his nose and he became cross eyed trying to look at it. He shook his head and the butterfly flew off again.

"Ma used to pick those juniper beries and make sweet rolls out of them," he said. "Or... that's what my pa told me."

Lucille was glancing down at her hands intently, but she obliged to continue the conversation. "Do you wonder if it'd be different if they were still alive?"

"Perhaps." He cast a look over at her but she only briefly met his gaze before looking back down at her fingers. "I imagine your life would be a pretty stark contrast to what it is now if things were different with your parents."

She gave a dry life. "I probably wouldn't be such a screwed up excuse for an individual."

He scoffed at her comment. "You're an angel compared to some of the guild members."

She shook her head and muttered, more to herself than him, "you have no idea."

That comment caught him a bit off guard and he considered for a few seconds if he wanted to pry. But, he decided, he had enough secrets and regrets he wouldn't really want to share with her, so it would be hypocritical to begrudge her the same privacy. After a few moments the peace and spring air got the better of him. He stood up, pulled off his shirt and breeches and dove into the water. She gave him a momentarily shocked look when he'd undressed, but it subsided when she obviously realised that he probably didn't want to swim in his clothes and that was why he'd done it. And anyway, he still had his small clothes on at least.

She was glancing at the pile of material he'd dumped on the pier when he surfaced and it was enough of a distraction of him to reach up, grab her arms and pull her in as well. She gasped when the water hit her and he laughed at her – at least this time he could tease her without worrying she might get frostbite. She surfaced with a bit more elegance than him and couldn't stop a smile tugging at her lips.

"What, you going to swim in your clothes, lass?" he mocked. "Is this some bosmer tradition?"

"No, but I'm starting to consider trying to get women out of their clothes by dumping them into lakes is a nord one," she retorted. He chuckled at her and took (or, perhaps, waded?) a step closer.

"Please," he said with mock innocence. "If I wanted you out of your clothes, they'd be shredded hours ago."

She considered what he said, and for a change she said nothing. Perhaps this was owing to the fact that he'd closed quite some distance between them or something else entirely, he didn't really care. Still, her back was pressed against the river bank and he could feel the fabric from her clothes waving against his legs in the water. He really did tower over her – he forgot sometimes if they kept a respectable distance – but in that moment, she looked tiny underneath him. It was maybe just a little bit exciting to him.

Either way, something came over him then – maybe it was the spur of the moment, or he'd been meaning to do it for a while now – but he leant down, took her chin in his palm and kissed her. She hesitated and froze at first, becoming so rigid and unwelcoming that he actually almost pulled away to apologise, but then she returned it and he felt her hand on his chest, so he figured he'd at least partially assessed her interest in him correctly.

It got out of hand maybe a bit quickly and he'd pulled her away from the bank with his arms around her waist, and hers around his neck, within a couple of moments. And he was tilting his head to get a better angle, his tongue pushing at her lips until they gave way under him and opened up. He didn't doubt that he could easily have taken her right then, voyeurs be damned, but she broke it off and pulled away from him when one of his hands started to wander under her shirt. Still, there was a half shy, half embarrassed, smile on her lips and he knew he hadn't been entirely inappropriate, even if she wasn't about to screw him right then and there.

He could wait a bit longer he decided, he was a patient man when he wanted to be. Perhaps she was a bit surprised he hadn't been more pushy, because once she'd stepped out of his arms she gave him a curious look. "You're not doing your reputation any favours."

He cocked his head at her and crossed his arms over his chest. "I've been thinking I'll make an exception for you."

She smiled at him faintly, then said, "how generous of you."

He grinned at her, and there was one of those pleasant, hinting laughs that passed between them again.


	13. The Illusion Shattered

Thanks to those who have taken the time to read this!

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

**The Illusion Shattered**

He did not often frequent the Bee and Barb unless he was trying to pick up a woman. In fact, he sometimes felt disloyal doing it, as if Stig would know he'd consumed alcohol in another place. Stig would always give him these suspicious looks whenever he returned, as if he could smell the competitors mead off him or something. But sometimes Brynjolf had business dealings there, and sometimes he just needed a good shag and had found that the tavern was particular good for finding comely wenches.

Today it was of the more business dealing variety. Brynjolf had just finished having a somewhat tense discussion with a 'client' (or more, somebody who needed to pay their debts) upstairs when he got completely sidetracked. The downstairs of the Bee and Barb was busy and loud, like it usually was during the evenings. But Lucille was there, which he considered mildly unusual because she didn't really drink and she didn't appear to be here for any other reason. In fact, she was sitting at the counter downing a shot of something he suspected was rather high in alcohol content. Maybe she had some sorrows to drown or something. He'd vaguely remembered overhearing that she'd been arguing with Mercer again recently, so perhaps that was it.

After a few moments she got off her chair and turned around, then hesitated as she saw him. Something flashed across her features – uncertainty perhaps, or regret, he wasn't sure which. But it was quickly replaced by a look of determination as she strode towards him.

It happened in a flash. She leant up onto the tips of her toes, grabbed him by the scruff of his armour (he liked to wear it when he needed to intimidate people, and nobody in Riften was brave enough to confront him) and pulled him into a rough kiss.

It took him completely offguard and he stumbled a bit at first, before his hands instinctively reached to cup her shoulders and then reality sunk in. He pulled her away just enough to make eye contact and the look he received made him swallow thickly.

There was only one word he could use to describe it. Desire, heavy and unadulterated – not that it really bothered him in the least. He couldn't stop the twitch at the corner of his mouth as he gazed at her.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he whispered.

"I'm saying it now, aren't I?" she retorted and pushed another kiss to his lips.

This time he wrapped his arms firm around her, tilting his head and opening willingly under her insistent tongue prying at his lips. Perhaps other people were feeling uncomfortable at their actions, but it wasn't exactly unusual in Riften, far less at the Bee and Barb.

Still, he obliged leading her somewhat clumsily up the stairs and back into the room he'd just been using for his business dealings. The room was still booked for the rest of the night (just in case things didn't go so well with his client, which, happily, they hadn't.)

He slammed the door behind him and fumbled slightly with the lock as Lucille seemed insistent on removing his armour while trailing a kiss down his neck. He groaned a little bit but managed to secure their privacy before grabbing her and pushing her backwards firmly. Her calves hit the back of the bed and she fell onto the mattress. He grinned, freed himself of the chestpiece of his armour and climbed on top of her.

It wasn't how he imagined it, and yet in some ways it kind of was. In truth he'd never actually been with an elf before (mostly because they were so unusual in Skyrim) and perhaps that uncertainty made him more hesitant than he usually was. Or maybe there was more to it than just a casual fuck.

But it didn't matter either way. He did hurt her, it was inevitable, but he was careful, cautious and perhaps too much so – because eventually Lucille growled at him in frustration and took control, and all his worry was replaced with desire and lust. And a _lot_ of satisfaction.

o0o

"I love you." It sort of just fell out accidentally really. He didn't even realise he'd said it for a good few seconds or so, but when he did he didn't feel particularly shocked.

Perhaps he was too content and dozy but Brynjolf just stared at Lucille on his side, one hand cupping her cheek. She glanced away, her brow creased and only meeting his gaze again when he brushed his thumb over her cheekbone.

He smiled at her, but was drifting to sleep too soon after to notice that she didn't return it.

o0o

When he slept, he dreamt about what they had done. He dreamt about running his hands over her body, over her back and the vague disappointment he had felt because it was too dark for him to make out any intricate details of her features, and he'd had to map out every part of her by touch.

It was a broken, light sleep though, and he woke with a frown when a noise disturbed him – being an orphan and a thief had made him a light sleeper and probably saved his life at least once before. How much time had passed he couldn't guessed. The first thing he noticed was that he was alone.

Confused, he sat up in on the bed and held his head in his hands for a few seconds. His hair was tangled and unruly. Then he glanced around the room before his eyes fixated on his clothes and armour on the floor.

Lucille's was gone. Unsure what to think, but reasoning to not jump to the worst conclusions, he got out of bed and reached for his garments. He pulled on his underclothes, then the leggings of his armour and paused as he went to do up the laces.

He froze as his fingers passed over the spot where Gallus' key usually sat. It was empty.

He was running out of the tavern and to the cistern in a split second, not even bothering to finish getting dressed.

o0o

When he arrived at the cistern people gave him bizarre looks. Truthfully, it was to be expected. He was frantic and they probably didn't understand why. He almost crashed straight into Frederick, had the other man not quickly dodged him and shouted in annoyance.

Brynjolf paused and looked at him. "Where's Lucille?"

Frederick narrowed his eyes at him, obviously putting at least some parts together given his chest was bare and who he was asking for. Then Frederick pointed in the direction of the corridor that lead to Gallus' quarters. "She went towards Gallus' room. Why do you ask?" Frederick gave him a critical look. "What did you do?"

"Spare me," Brynjolf growled and rushed down the corridor.

The door was ajar. He took a moment to collect himself, praying perhaps it was just a misunderstanding but knowing deep down there probably wasn't a pleasant explanation for any of this. When he pushed the door open, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. He'd expected to see Lucille snatching some of Gallus' more prized possessions perhaps – but not this.

He witnessed it exactly as it happened in every heart wrenching detail. Gallus stood before him, his features blank as the dagger sliced his neck open. The imperial collapsed to the floor in a pool of his own blood, and it was all Brynjolf could do to stare helplessly at the person who'd murdered the closest thing he still had to a family.

Lucille.

She didn't notice him at first, but when her gaze flickered up to his, her features contorted into such a pained look he might have even noticed had he not been so full of rage.

"Murderer," he breathed through gritted teeth.

She did not stop to reply and made to run past him. He grabbed at her, fully intent on ensuring she wouldn't escape so easily, but she span in his arms (again, so swift and agile.) He dodged her dagger as she swiped at him, but he missed the blade that shot from her wrist and embedded deep in his shoulder.

Brynjolf cried out as the blade retracted and his distraction was enough for her to break free. He grabbed at the wound with his other hand, wincing as his fingers became stained with blood. Then he realised Lucille was fleeing and ran after her.

"Stop her!" he screamed to anyone that could hear him. "She murdered Gallus!"

Frederick was the first to respond, but it was too late. The woman who stole the life that meant most to him had already brushed past him and pulled herself up the hatch, out into the graveyard and was gone.

o0o

He chased her through the streets of Riften. It was late into the night and nobody was out but the guards and them. The guards didn't even bother to bat an eyelid at them, they'd gotten accustomed to turning a blind eye to things like this after years of bribery from the Thieves Guild. It was one of the few times that Brynjolf wished they would interfere.

Lucille was fast on her feet, but he was stronger than her and had more endurance. Still, chasing her through and between the houses and market was a test of dexterity to which she was at the marked advantage. But determination and rage counted for a lot and eventually he cornered her. She could have made an attempt at escaping, there was just the two of them and she might have been able to slip past him into the alleyway to her left. But she hesitated, her body poised for flight as she regarded him carefully.

He realised in that moment that he did not recognise the person standing before him. She was not the woman he'd grown affectionate for, not the quiet, passive elf he thought he'd known. Her gaze was cold, calculating, her black eyes dead to feeling.

After a few moments he spoke, and his voice was quiet, hesitant, as if he didn't really want to know the answer to his question. "Was any of it real?"

Her lips curled into a faint snarl. "It was never about _you_," she replied. "I was bound to this contract before we even met."

"_Contract?_" he spat and clenched his fists. "Is that all a life means to you?" When her expression didn't change he shook his head as he understood. "You're in the Dark Brotherhood."

"Didn't half take you long enough to figure it out." She laughed bitterly. "Cynric _almost_ gave me away, but you solved that problem for me quite nicely. Better than I'd have hoped, actually."

"I loved you," he said flatly.

She sneered at him. "Love's foolish." Her eyes narrowed and she glanced to the side into the alley. He didn't really notice. "It just means you need a shorter knife."

And then she darted away again, leaving him stunned and in disbelief. He didn't have the motivation to follow her, and really, what would have been the point? Gallus was dead, exacting revenge wouldn't bring him back, and might just bring down more trouble on their heads from the assassins if they killed one of their kin. Although to say that the Thieves Guild would have a continuing working relationship with those murderers after tonight would be a vast understatement. Brynjolf would make sure every tie was cut with them even if he had fight every other guildmember for it.

He fell to his knees a broken man after a few moments, wincing at the ache in his shoulder and blinking back a tear. It would not be the last one that night.

* * *

Things are going to be a bit AU in this story (think I said that in the first chapter?) but basically the outcome for everything will be the same as it is in game, the process might just be a little bit different :)


	14. Pariah

Thank you SO so much to all those amazing people who have left reviews! Especially thank you to Lydia for your anon review!

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Pariah**

"How did _nobody_ see this coming?" Mercer was, understandably, furious.

Tensions were high in the flagon where every guildmember had gathered. Brynjolf was sat at a table with his head in his hands, barely thinking anything at all let alone really knowing what was going on around him. He didn't even know what to feel any more. He'd flitted between fury, guilt, anguish and self-loathing for a good few hours until Mercer had convened this meeting. It was almost morning now and his body was screaming at him for rest. By now Brynjolf was too emotionally drained to do anything, and longed to collapse into his bed in the cistern and beg sleep to take away his pain.

"Don't you think if we suspected we would have done something?" Stig replied sharply. His arms were crossed over his chest as if he were daring Mercer to challenge him.

"Didn't you say yourself there was something off about Lucille?" Tove interrupted. Instead of anger over Gallus' death in her voice, there was the cocky hint of superiority. As if the woman couldn't be more vile than to try and put others down in a situation like this, Brynjolf couldn't even believe why he'd slept with her sometimes.

Judging by the murderous look the beefy nord gave her, Stig would have none of the spoiled princess gloating at proving him wrong. "I thought it was a bosmer thing, it's not like she went around whispering the damn Black Sacrament to herself."

"Of course, because that's the only thing that would have given her away," Tove replied snidely.

"Bitch." Stig shoved her roughly on the shoulders and she seethed at him. "Don't give me a reason to wring your neck, because nothing would give me more pleasure, you spoilt-"

"_Stig_," Mercer interrupted forcefully. The bartender fumed but reluctantly stepped down, even if he continued sending menacing looks at Tove.

"As for you though," Mercer continued and Brynjolf felt the breton's accusing eyes land on him. "Couldn't keep it in your wretched pants, could you? She only had to give you a smile and you would've given her Gallus' bleeding heart yourself."

There was a screeching noise as the redhead leapt to his feet. Emotionally and physically drained as he was, Mercer's words would draw a response from him, and the breton _would_ regret provoking him. Still, Brynjolf had to bite back the pain in his shoulder from his sudden movement, Frederick had sealed and bandaged his wound a couple of hours ago, but it still hurt.

"There's nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself," Brynjolf growled, his eyes locked onto Mercer's. "Don't think for a second that there's anybody in this room that wants to gut Lucille more than me."

Mercer held his gaze for a good few moments, then hesitated and sighed. "I know that." His eyes softened and it was the closest thing to an apology Brynjolf knew he'd ever get. Mercer didn't admit he was wrong, ever.

"I think it'd be better to figure out who wanted Gallus murdered," Frederick interrupted softly as the redhead slumped back into his chair again. "Lucille was only the weapon."

"A conniving, ruthless little whore of a weapon," Stig added flatly. Frederick winced a little bit but nodded. Regardless, Brynjolf would admit that he had a point. As much as he wanted Lucille to suffer for what she'd done, he wanted the one who'd ordered Gallus' assassination dead even more.

"Karliah," Mercer said suddenly. Every eye in the room jumped to him.

"You're mad," Frederick said. "She loved him."

"Did she?" Mercer challenged. "I always thought it was pretty one-sided."

Brynjolf frowned as he considered what the breton was saying. He didn't want to believe Karliah was to blame, but Mercer was right at least a little bit. Gallus was the one who'd always doted on her, not the other way around. If you only considered how Karliah acted towards the imperial, it wouldn't even seem as if they were in a relationship at all. Brynjolf had always thought it was because Karliah was shy, perhaps, or that she'd had issues of her own that only Gallus knew of... but perhaps if she never really loved him in the first place it would explain a lot about how cold she acted.

"That doesn't mean she wanted him dead," Stig pointed out. It meant a lot that Stig was defending the dunmer, he'd always given her a hard time, yet... yet Brynjolf had always suspected that perhaps the old grumpy nord had always had the smallest affection for Karliah, as if she was the daughter he never had.

"You know as much as I the amount of arguing they did behind closed doors," Mercer replied. "Something was wrong these last few months between them."

"Does anyone even know where she is?" Brynjolf mumbled offhandedly. He certainly didn't know, he hadn't seen her in days.

"I saw her leaving Riften yesterday morning," Frederick said. The nord frowned a little. "She looked... tense and on edge, kept looking over her shoulder like she thought somebody was following her."

Stig cursed softly. Brynjolf's brow knitted together. He didn't particularly like where this was going. There was a moment of silence, and then Mercer spoke softly. "Frederick, Brynjolf, go to Snow Veil Sanctum."

Frederick gave him a perplexed look. "Why?"

The breton grimaced. "I did a job with her there right before Lucille showed up. We camped overnight." He paused a moment. "I woke up while she was keeping watch, she was... doing something, chanting."

"You're not saying-" Frederick started, but Mercer interrupted him.

"I didn't think anything of it at the time, and we were ambushed by draugr and had to flee not long after." Mercer gave them a pointed look. "If she did perform the Black Sacrament there, she wouldn't have had time to hide it."

"She might have gone back afterwards and covered it up," Brynjolf pointed out.

"Perhaps, but it's worth a shot."

The redhead nodded slowly, but then he remembered something and narrowed his eyes at Mercer. "If I remember correctly, it was you who brought Lucille to the guild in the first place."

Mercer grimaced and looked almost the slightest bit guilty or regretful. "Karliah was the one who suggested that I investigate her as a recruit." He pursed his lips and glanced away momentarily. "She said she didn't have time to do it herself."

"Oh god's," Frederick whispered.

It was an accurate comment for how everyone in the room felt.

o0o

It was a gruesome sight. The human flesh was decaying, the blood dried onto the floor, the nightshade petals shrivelled. But the worst part was the heavy, oppressive stench of death and evil in the room. Brynjolf shuddered as he stared at the pile of body parts heaped on the floor, surrounded by a circle of extinguished candles. There was a dagger, stained to the hilt in blood and the human heart in the centre had been repeatedly stabbed.

"I can't believe Karliah did it," Frederick murmured. They'd travelled to Snow Veil Sanctum and found the remains of a Black Sacrament ritual in a small room inside.

Brynjolf was silent. He didn't know what to say, he was so consumed with disbelief and hurt that nothing seemed appropriate. Several moments passed, and then he gingerly took a step towards the grotesque effigy. As he did so his foot landed on a circular tile on the floor and there was, again, that characteristic, dreading _click_ sound.

Frederick groaned as the redhead stilled. "What _is_ it with you and traps?!" Frederick had a point. He needed to stop making a habit of these kinds of things.

There was an unpleasant noise of gas seeping into the room. It took only a few moments and they were both staggering, clutching at their throats and gasping for breath. Brynjolf collapsed to the ground, pain wracking his body and curling into the foetal position. His lungs felt like they were on fire and he couldn't see straight, his head aching worse than any hangover he'd had.

But he could make out the eyes observing them on the other side of the gate that had closed to seal them into the room. They flashed in the torchlight, and then a lithe female body jumped down from a high ledge delicately. They'd been watched the moment they walked into the crypt, Brynjolf cursed himself for being so stupid as not to notice it. He'd been too choked up in his emotions to pay proper attention to anything else.

And now he was suffering the consequences for it.

The woman stalked off. As she left, the torchlight flickered across her features and he saw a pointed elven ear.

"Karliah," he growled with the last of the breath left in his lungs.

The hissing of gas stopped abruptly, perhaps the trap was exhausted of it's poison, but he couldn't do _anything_, even with the overwhelming urge to retch he didn't have the strength to actually do it. Then Frederick grabbed his hand and he felt the beautiful relief of restoration magic pouring through his body.

Frederick wasn't adept at casting restoration spells, though, and it was only enough to stop the both of them from dying outright before Brynjolf lost consciousness.

o0o

When he woke next he felt, surprisingly, not that bad all things considered. His head was a bit sore and his skin was itchy, but apart from that... nothing.

It didn't feel right.

Brynjolf cast a look around the room before his eyes landed on Frederick. The other man was still passed out. Concerned, the redhead gingerly crawled over to him and shook him gently. Frederick awoke a little groggily, but seemed as well as Brynjolf was himself.

"Are you alright to move?" the redhead asked.

"Yes, I think so." Frederick sounded a bit hoarse but he sat up regardless.

They paused for a few moments before carefully getting to their feet. Eventually they picked the lock on the gate sealing them in and tumbled out of the crypt, found their horses mercifully still tethered outside, and rode as fast as they dared back to Riften. Neither of them knew how much time had passed, and the guild had to know Karliah was guilty.

o0o

Whatever lapse or latency in effects from the trap wore off as they returned to Riften. Progressively throughout the journey Brynjolf began getting a headache and twitchy, to the point where he was doubled over his horse and clutching at his temples by the time they were approaching the city gates. By the time his horse came to an automatic stop before the gate guards, (considering he wasn't even directing the animal any more it was left to it's own devices to do as it deemed appropriate) he felt so nauseous he couldn't stop himself retching over the side of the horse's neck. He swayed a little bit and would have fallen off, had one of the guard's not lunged forward and caught him.

Somebody was speaking to him but he couldn't understand it, and every word hurt his throbbing head even more. Behind him, the other guard helped Frederick off his own horse, his companion faring little better than the redhead.

Brynjolf barely remembered being helped to the temple, and the trap's effects hit him in full force less than an hour later.

It was unpleasant and easily the most revolting experience he had ever had.

First he started vomiting uncontrollably until the only thing that came up was blood. But it was not the only place he saw red, because his nose, ears and eyes bled to the point that he wondered if all his internal organs might be haemorrhaging. His skin flecked with a bloody rash, before it blistered and peeled off in chunks.

It would have been worse if he remembered every horrible detail, but his body succumbed to shock and disorientation within hours and he couldn't even recall accurately what happened after that. The next thing he experienced with any reasonable measure of coherency was waking up and finding himself in a bed in the temple with Mercer standing above him.

He still felt awful and he stung all over – before realising that he was covered in bandages. Brynjolf glanced at his hands. He noticed then that the reason he was bandaged up so was not because somebody had repeatedly stabbed him or similar, but because the skin on his fingers was new and raw, as if it had all fallen off not so long ago. He reasoned the rest of his body hadn't fared much better.

"You alright?" He glanced up at Mercer when the breton spoke. "Had us scared for a while there."

Brynjolf blinked a little. The light was hurting his eyes, but he got used to it after a few moments. He tried speaking and found that he at least was able to do that, if his voice was a bit raspy. "Karliah, she trapped the crypt... where-"

"She's long gone," Mercer replied bitterly. "But I've got every contact I have searching after her, I'll find her eventually if it takes every coin I have."

Brynjolf nodded slowly. He'd consider how he could assist in the future when he didn't feel like he'd just woken up from being dead. "How long was I out for?"

"More than a week, the priest kept you in an induced sleep so you wouldn't be in so much pain."

He frowned. Perhaps the faint hints of dreams he remembered of writhing in agony and screaming hadn't actually been dreams at all. "And Frederick?"

"He hasn't woken up yet, but the priest says he'll make it," Mercer replied. Brynjolf let out a sigh of relief. He raised a hand to his head, then realised his long red hair was no longer there any more.

Mercer gave him a faint look of pity. "Your hair fell out days ago."

Brynjolf sighed but shrugged a little bit. "I suppose I was meaning to cut it." He laughed weakly but it hurt his throat so he stopped. At least he would _try_ and look on the bright side of things, if there even was a bright side.

"Mmm." Mercer gave him a serious look then and the formerly-redhead sobered. "I've taken over as leader of the guild, nobody protested and I assumed you and Frederick wouldn't either."

Brynjolf nodded. It didn't surprise him. He couldn't really imagine who else might do the job, Stig certainly would have refused because he was so hell bent on retiring to some tropical paradise that he didn't want to be tied down to the guild indefinitely by becoming guild master.

"I want you as my second in charge."

Brynjolf hesitated momentarily, unsure if he was qualified let alone wanted the responsibility. But then he reasoned it was probably expected of him... and it would have been what Gallus wanted. His heart twisted a little thinking of the imperial and he shoved the thought away. He still really hadn't come to terms that he was gone.

"Aye, I'll accept," he replied eventually. "But we cut every tie to those worthless assassin's straight away or I'm gone."

Mercer nodded. "Of course. I might even be able to dig up some information on the one they sent to kill Gallus."

"Lucille?" Brynjolf snarled. "If you find her for me, I'll bring you her head on a platter."

"I doubt that was her real name, but I won't turn it down if you do." Mercer stood up a little straighter then and glanced away. "I need to leave. Stay here a few more days until you're well enough to come back to the cistern, then we'll talk."

Brynjolf murmured his agreement, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as the other man walked off. His eyebrows knitted together and he bit at his lip a bit. He'd have a lot to think about while he stayed in the temple recovering.


	15. Past, Present, Future

Thank you so much to those reading this and have left reviews or given me support in other ways! This is the start of part two... also I should note that there are some changes to the Dark Brotherhood questline in this (general theme is still the same, the main thing is that there was another Listener after Alisanne Dupre and before the dragon crisis)

* * *

**Part Two**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Past, Present, Future**

_Twenty Five Years Later_

"Come out of the shadows, I tire of your games." The breton bristled and twitched as someone appeared behind him. She always did this, toyed with her prey and played with them until they begged for death. He refused to play to her tune.

"Games?" The nord woman purred. She was blonde and had the kind of wolfish eyes that made you wonder if she was sizing you up for dinner... or worse. "There's no games, just business."

He span around and she grinned at him, cold and sadistic. It even made him shudder a little, and his heart was black as coal.

"I need you to find the dunmer," he said carefully.

The woman raised an eyebrow at him, then jumped up onto table in the room, playing with her dagger as she spoke. He did not meet her in public, only in remote inns or abandoned houses and as infrequently as possible.

"Still so bent on her?" she replied lazily. "It's been twenty five years, give up already."

"She has something I need," he growled and his eyes flashed with a barely suppressed fury and obsession. "Something that you failed to deliver-"

"And you were meant to ensure the death of the assassin I sent you twenty five years ago!" She snarled at him and the dagger in her hand flickered hinting in the torchlight.

"Do you know she's the Listener now? I have to take orders from her!" She got up from the table and advanced on him. "You were meant to ensure she would never escape alive after completing the contract, yet she came back without even a scratch on her!"

He drew his blade and there was a clash of steel. He stared her down as she seethed at him, her eyes narrowed into such slits it made him swallow thickly because she unnerved him so. He knew she was a dangerous woman, and it made him uncomfortable every time he had to meet with her which was, mercifully, rare.

"Help me find what I need and I'll make sure your Listener falls into an ambush that even she won't be able to get out of."

She considered this for a moment, but then smiled cruelly. "She leaves for Solitude in two weeks, deliver her to the Penitus Oculatus and I'll track down your precious dunmer."

He gave her a hard look and sheathed his weapon. "Don't fail me."

She laughed menacingly but had disappeared into the shadows before he knew it.

o0o

It was a cold, unpleasant day that she chose to travel on. The sort of day when it drizzled a fine haze of rain constantly that didn't quite make you feel wet but still managed to make you entirely miserable anyway. She was travelling to Solitude with her hood up and her head down to fend off the rain. Her horse was a lean, black steed, thinner and less sturdy than most horses native to Skyrim with a fine, glossy coat and the kind of amber eyes that looked at you as if it just _knew_ something you didn't.

But even if her horse was foreign, with her hood drawn up and a hunting bow strapped to her back she did not look that out of place. An elf travelling between cities, not common but far from suspicious either.

Which was why it surprised her when she was approached by a group of imperial soldiers and they did more than just nod their heads and wave her on. Usually they did not bother her, given that elves weren't particularly known for being Stormcloaks, and that was all the imperials did this day it seemed – hunt Stormcloaks. The leader of the soldiers waved a hand and she pulled her horse to a stop. He approached and looked her over.

"Dismount traveller," he ordered.

She narrowed her eyes momentarily. They were black and calculating. But she obeyed and got off her horse. The soldier approached her and sneered. She bristled, her body poised on edge because something didn't feel _right_.

"Just a standard search, need to make sure you aren't carrying any stolen goods," the captain of the soldiers continued.

"I can assure you I have nothing illegal," she replied calmly.

The captain's lips curled into a sneer. "We'll see."

Then someone kicked her in the back and she fell to her hands and knees. A gasp escaped her lips and anger flashed through her eyes, but before she could retaliate a boot pressed on the back of her neck and a sword point was thrust inches from her neck. There was a whinny nearby of a horse in distress.

"Shut that animal up," the captain ordered. She would not allow it. She made a short series of clicks with her mouth and her horse reared it's hind legs. There was a shout from one of the soldiers and the draw of steel, but the horse had charged off before any of them could have stopped it.

The boot on her neck pressed harder and she growled viciously. Then the captain spoke again. "Rip her cloak off and armour."

Her eyes widened in concern but there was nothing she could do to stop them. When they pulled off her cloak it almost strangled her, they didn't even bother to undo the tie around her neck. She choked for breath, her copper hair dishevelled, and then was greeted by the unpleasant feeling of somebody grabbing her leather chestpiece and slicing up the back of it with sharp blacksmith clippers. They didn't care if they hurt her, and even if they did it hardly mattered in comparison to the triumphant look splashing across the captains features. Her back was bare aside from her smallclothes, and she knew she was done for now.

"Just like they said. Take her in," the captain announced, satisfied. "And one of you ride ahead and tell Maro we've found ourselves the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood."

She was not filled with dread at his words. Only anger, so dark and vicious that she would slit the throat of every one of the soldiers loved ones as punishment once she was free... if she got free.

On her back was all the proof any of them would have needed. There was a tattoo there of a large black hand that stretched the width of her small frame. Above it was the image of a human face with a black hood drawn up and it's eyes concealed. The only visible part of the face was it's chin, jaw and mouth. A mouth with it's lips stitched together.

o0o

_He did not feel comfortable waiting here in this inn. It smelled of a trap, he'd been in the business too long and knew better. But what he needed from this encounter outweighed his hesitation, so he sat and waited, drumming his fingers together and flinching every time he heard a rat scurry or someone shout from the floor above. _

_It was not a pleasant inn, but it was the one that she'd demanded as a meeting place. In hindsight, it was probably because, down here in the cellar, if she wanted to dispose of him it wouldn't be difficult. Not that he'd let her do it easily, but there was the threat of it. You did not deal with women like her without being on your guard – unless you wanted your throat slit. _

_But she arrived eventually, slinking down the stairs and falling into the seat opposite him at the table he sat at. He knew who she was even if she was trying to disguise herself as a traveller, the hint in her malicious eyes betrayed everything if you knew to look for it. _

"_A little bird tells me you need someone dead," she purred and twisted a golden lock around a finger casually. _

"_Such grand conclusions you make," he replied sarcastically. He had an ugly face for a breton, as if he'd spent the better part of his life glaring at everything and eventually it'd just become permanently etched into his features. "Do you jump to the same ones for anyone who performs the sacrament, or just me?"_

_Her fair nord features flickered with annoyance, but she seemed to let the comment slide and sat up straighter. "Who needs to die?"_

"_Gallus Desidenius."_

_Her eyebrows rose and she leant back in her chair, fingering her chin in thought. "I know who he is... and what he's the head of. That's a tall order, the Thieves Guild will have him protected better than the emperor."_

_He gave her a hard look. "I'll get your assassin entry to the guild."_

_She smiled but shrugged. "Not necessary, though useful... and it'll make the job easier."_

"_I need Gallus' diary as well." _

_She nodded. "That can be arranged." _

_He considered for a few moments and leant his head in his palm, with his other hand he played with the strange trinket that hung on the pendant around his neck. "How much is this going to cost?"_

"_Normally it would cost a fortune for a target this difficult to reach, but..." Her eyes glinted with a sick kind of desire for violence. "But I'm willing to let the payment slide if you help me with something in return." _

_He narrowed his eyes at her, unsure if he should accept anything from her without being wary. "What do you need?"_

"_The woman I'm sending you for this job has become a festering, infected thorn in my side." Her expression turned to one of dark loathing and fury. "She's the best we have, I know because I trained her. She's my Silencer."_

_He went to make a reply, but she continued and interrupted him._

"_But she's also the Listener's pet, and in doing so has devoted her little black heart to enacting the Nightmother's every will, because it makes _him_ happy." _

"_You don't share their devotion to your – what is it you call her? - Unholy Matron or something ridiculous like that?" _

"_No, I don't," she growled and leant forward across the table. "The old ways are dead, Xael can barely hear the Nightmother's whisperings any more, but he still clings to tradition. My Silencer will take his position when he dies, and everything will _continue_." _

_She took a deep breath and some of the anger coursing through her seemed to dissapate. When she continued her voice was calmer, and somehow, more disturbing. "I'm sending you my Silencer because I want you to make sure she doesn't make it out alive. I want you to make her _burn_."_

"_That shouldn't be a problem," the breton replied carefully._

"_Good." Her smile sent a shiver down his spine. "With her out of the way I will be made leader when the current failure meets his end." She was baring her teeth now and he edged away ever so slightly. "And there will not be a Listener any more, there will be no Black Hand. The Dark Brotherhood will arise stronger than ever from the ashes of it's outdated traditions."_

"If_ your Listener meets his end," the breton pointed out. _

"_Not if." She grinned maniacally. "When." _

o0o

Riften had changed over the years.

It was not the corrupt, easy city to be a thief in any more. Now it was vicious and cruel, the guards had grown competent, and the shop keepers bolder and resistant to their intimidations. Brynjolf wasn't sure where it had all gone wrong. It happened over years, decades even. Jobs started to get botched, leads turned up with nothing fruitful, and the money that once flowed through the guild was drying up. People were depressed, some thought it was a curse, and a lot had left their flock for work elsewhere.

It was not a good time to be a thief. But Brynjolf had been with the guild longer than he'd been without it by now, and he felt a responsibility to it... it was like family, if a somewhat dysfunctional one.

Most of the people who'd been in the guild when Gallus was alive had left. Karliah never returned (although Brynjolf wished she would so he could address their unfinished business), Tove eventually left after a particularly volatile argument with Stig and Mercer (nobody cared that she was gone.) Stig himself had retired to his tropical paradise... although his tropical paradise was a house on Lake Honrich during the summer, and he spent exorbitant amounts of money to escape further south in the winter to get away from the snow. Most of the other people around had left as well once the guild's luck had gone downhill. In the end, it was just Mercer, Brynjolf and Frederick behind from the old times.

But new people had come and joined throughout the years. Some of them Brynjolf got along with, some of them he had to keep in line (namely a woman called Sapphire who had questionable methods, but was also quite attractive) and some of them he had to apologise bitterly to (namely Cynric, although the breton had been gracious enough not to mock him and instead had been pitying.) Vex, the little orphan girl, eventually wound up in the guild. She'd grown into a pretty young woman now, with an awful temper, rude mouth and deadly skills, but still, Brynjolf doted on her like she was his little sister. She hated when he did, which was of course half the reason that he kept on doing it.

Regardless, when he'd taken up the role of second in charge in the guild, he'd started doing less jobs himself. Usually that was left to the younger, lower ranking people. Now Brynjolf mostly liaised with Mercer or other higher ranking guild members, gathered information and put together plans. And anyway, he was getting older and his back had started to give him trouble the last few years. He couldn't run around everyday pilfering mansions and climbing down into caves like he used to be able to – though of course he could still fight well enough to give most people pause at taking him on.

So that is why he found himself in the market that day, pretending to sell his potions at his 'stall' when in reality it was a guise to keep an eye on the people in Riften and an ear out for anything useful. Plus he did a fairly convincing job of it when he put on some finery and played up the charm. And if nothing was happening he could always goad and toy with Brand-Shei (taunting the poor dunmer had become somewhat of a pastime for Brynjolf when he had nothing else to do.)

"Might I interest you in this falmer blood elixir?" he purred at his customer. "I guarantee it will enhance your performance in private endeavours, boost your endurance and-"

"Really Brynjolf, why do you even bother?" Frederick shook his head at him, his thinning blond hair shaking a little as he did so.

The redhead's lips curled into a smirk. His hair wasn't as long now as it once was, but it still fell around his shoulders and he'd started growing scruffy facial hair over the years. "I have faith that one day you'll be stupid enough to buy it."

Frederick sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. "Why am I even friends with you?"

"Because I'm dashing, charming, and have a very sexy voice," Brynjolf offered helpfully.

The other man simply stared at him in disbelief. Then, after a few moments he chuckled and Brynjolf returned the gesture.

"What's in those bottles anyway?" Frederick asked and gestured to the vials of red liquid.

"This particular batch is corked wine from the Bee and Barb," he replied. "For some reason people seem more likely to believe a tonic will help them if it tastes awful."

Frederick shook his head but he was cut off replying by a suspiciously ominous sound, not unlike a rather large lizard roaring. The redhead ducked instinctively as something massive swooped low over the city and screeched a noise so distinct that the marketplace fell silent in shock.

It took a good few moments, but Brynjolf eventually murmured cautiously, "just so I'm clear, a dragon _did_ just fly over the city, aye?"

"I do believe so," Frederick replied with a frown.

"Good." The redhead paled a little bit. "Because if my drinking is catching up to me, I'm stopping right now."

Frederick grinned momentarily, then glanced around. People were starting to panic and the guards were rushing to the city gates. "Do you think we should help out?"

Brynjolf scowled. Frederick gave him a hard look and the redhead groaned. "I'm too old for this," he whined, realising that his 'friend' would drag him into this because unlike him, Frederick did have some sense of morality.

At least he'd have to let Brynjolf get changed first. He absolutely refused to fight in finery, that was just ridiculous.


End file.
